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PEN PHOTOGRAPHS 



or 



CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS. 



©aken from %iU 



By KATE FIELD. 



NEW AND EXLAEGED EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 




/ 

BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticenok & Fields, aks Fqxss, Osgood, & Co. 

1871. 



l?7l 



Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1871, 

BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



University Press: Welch,- Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



PREFACE. 



-=♦- 



TT^O connect this book with the art of Photography, by 
even the slight link of a title, may be considered 
presumptuous ; but when it is remembered that the best 
photographs fail to do justice to their originals, and that 
the most interesting subjects generally receive the worst 
treatment, I hope to be exonerated from so grave a 
charge. 

The following pages are the inspiration of gratitude. 
Owing to Charles Dickens twenty-five of the most de- 
lightful and most instructive evenings of my life, I 
have photographed them with the hope of clinching 
their recollection in the minds of many, and of giving 
to others some faint outline of a rare pleasure, the 
like of which will ne'er come to us again. Now that 
the great man has "vanished forevermore" from the 
" garish lights " of St, James Hall, the republication 
of this book, in an enlarged and more durable form, 
is deemed opportune, and that I have been unable to 



iv PREFACE. 

catch the fleeting power of Dickens's last and finest 
reading, " The Murder of Nancy Sykes," declared by 
the veteran Macready to be "two Macbeths rolled into 
one," will ever remain a source of keen regret. 

" It being low water, he went out with the tide." 

The joy of yesterday is the dead past of to-day, and 
I lay this offering at the feet of Charles Dickens, the 
actor, responsive to his prayer, " Lord, keep my memory 
green ! " 

THE AUTHOR. 
December 25, 1870. 



CONTENTS. 
■ ♦ 

Paoe 

The Welcome in Boston 1 

The Welcome in New York 12 

The Desk and the Reader 19 '^ 

A Christmas Carol 23 ^ 

David Copperfield 37'' 

Nicholas Nickleby at the Yorkshire School . . 50'' 

The Story of Little Dombey 63 "" 

Doctor Marigold ........ 75' 

Boots at the Holly-Tree Inn 85' 

Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party 92'' 

The Trial from Pickwick . 100' 

Mrs. Gamp 114^ 

Farewell 138 

The Verdict 143 



THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 



" A hundred thousand welcomes : I could weep, 
And I could laugh ; I am light, and heavy : welcome : 
A curse begin at very root of his heart 
That is not glad to see thee I " 

/^NCE in a generation all hearts throb in unison to 
^-^ the music of some great master whose humanity is 
broad enough to embrace mankind. Charles Dickens is 
such a master. His hand has struck chords that scarce 
a loving Christian soul has not echoed, with a silent 
blessing upon Him who sent so humane a genius into 
the world. It is not strange, then, that on a raw, gray 
morning in December, 1867, Boston experienced a new 
sensation in watching a motley crowd, ranged in single 
file before the door of Messrs. Ticknor and Fields's pub- 
lishing house, pursuing its winding way thus 



along Hamilton Place, and dragging its slow length 
dovTD. Tremont Street, with the distance of an eighth 



2 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 

of a mile between its head and tail. So closely packed 
was the human file as to seem as if the livmg mass had 
been caught and skewered for some especial cannibalistic 
festival, preparatory to being roasted on a spit. Had 
such a fate been in reserve, it would have been hailed 
with delight, for the choice between freezing and roasting 
is easily made while undergoing either process. Those 
who roast prefer to freeze, and those who freeze prefer 
to roast. On this eventful morning, fire in any form 
would have been regarded as "a blessing in disguise"; 
and if any clerical believer in the good old-fashioned 
hell had then and there improvised a revival, he would 
have made converts of them aU. 

Truckmen, porters, clerks, "roughs," clergymen, mer- 
chants, gamblers, speculators, gentlemen, loafers, white 
men, black men, colored men, boys, and three women ! 
Broadcloth, no cloth ! Fine linen, doubtful linen, no linen ! 
The lion stood up with the lamb. The wild animals of 
Boston were merged into one unhappy family, and the great 
democratic principle on which our glorious institutions 
are founded was more practically illustrated than it will 
ever be again, if good republicans haye a voice in the 
matter. " Here 's yer Boston aristocracy ! " screamed 
out a young gentleman bearing a striking likeness to 
Young Bailey, of "Mrs. Todgers's Commercial Board- 
ing-House." This pleasantry seemed to afford infinite 
deliglit to a " party " who replied with a wink of the eye 
and a grin that broke over his piebald countenance as 



THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 3 

the sun breaks upon the dawn, that " the people of Bos- 
ton had never before had an opportunity of seeing the 
elight of the city standing in a row." The purity of this 
" party's " French accent was only equalled by the purity 
of his breath, the architecture of which might have been 
attributed to the composite order, consisting as it did of 
bad whiskey and stale tobacco, injudiciously mingled. 

The Dickens fever set in as early as half past six 
o'clock. Victims whom the epidemic had marked for its 
own, and who in consequence had passed a sleepless 
night, rose before the sun got out of bed and, chewing the 
cud of fancy, on which substantial food several hundred 
of the Boston aristocracy breakfasted in honor of Charles 
Dickens, rushed to the scene of action. Among these 
enthusiastic Dickensites were two of the three heroines 
whose unexampled fortitude should be remembered in 
their epitaphs. Eeinforcements came thick and fast, 
until, at half past seven o'clock, seventy-five human be- 
ings were going through the various stages of congela- 
tion. One hour before noon the human sandwiches were 
counted by hundreds, and could they have eaten them- 
selves would have done so with pleasure. 

To stand "a long way on the frosty side of cool" 
from half past six to nine o'clock at the earliest, — for 
not until then were the doors of Messrs. Ticknor and 
rields's establishment thrown open, — and several hours 
longer at the latest, was not conducive to a rapid circu- 
lation of the blood; yet there never was a more good- 



4: THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 

natured crowd. They looked their situation coolly in the 
face, and determined to secure their prize or perish in the 
attempt. They stamped their feet and sent forth their 
voices in song. Perhaps the singing was more boisterous 
than hilarious, for it requires a singularly vivid imagina- 
tion to be joyful when undergoing the experience of Sir 
John Franklin in his search for a northwestern passage ; 
nevertheless, the attempt denoted an amiable disposition, 
and this was significant. In compliment to the great 
man on whose altar they were sacrificing themselves, they 
sang " The Ivy Green," as appropriate to the season of 
the year. Then, making a diversion, they violently at- 
tacked " John Brown," in whose soul they seemed to take 
great satisfaction for the reason of its " marching on ! " 

" Bully for John Brown ! " exclaimed a " Pahdee." " I 
congratulate the gintlemun wid all me heart, I do. Shure 
an' if he 'd say a good word for us, I 'd remember it next 
election time. By me sowl, it ud be a blissid thing now 
if our soles was marching on, gintlemin ! " 

" You 're right there, my friend," replied a voice at- 
tached to a genteel suit of clothes. " Old Milton may 
have thought that ' they also serve that only stand and 
wait,' but I don't think lie ever tried it when the ther- 
mometer was below zero." 

" Milton ? an', faith, who 's Milton ? Is he a mimber 
of Congriss ? " 

" No, my friend, a poet." 

" A poet indade ! Be jabers, he must have took out 



THE WTELCOME IN BOSTON. 5 

a poetical license for such blathering stuff as that. I 'm 
a porter, an' if Milton wants to know the facts o' stand- 
in' an' waitin', I 'm the man. John Brown 's the boy for 
my money." 

" Dr. Kane can't hold a candle to us," muttered another 
voice. "The open polar sea won't be discovered in a 
hurry, if it depends upon me." 

Stamping, singing, fun, and profanity ruled the long, 
cold hours, and when these staple articles failed, cigars 
and "pocket-pistols" came to the rescue. It was astonish- 
ing to see how many gentlemen were armed with this 
peculiar weapon, and how often they defended themselves 
with it. Substitutes were provided to relieve guard ; 
many were visited by friends whose money they held, and 
who, acting in the professional capacity of bottle-hold- 
ers, exhorted them to stand firm. Some, however, were 
obliged to drop from the line from sheer exhaustion ; and 
others, having put too large a number of enemies into 
their mouths, were assisted to a neighboring station by 
the gentlemanly police. The Chinese article, " tea," seemed 
to be held in universal esteem, and it was quite remarka- 
ble to notice how many persons stepped round the corner 
to get a cup of a beverage that is said to cheer but not in- 
ebriate. Strange to relate, however, the " tea " drunk on 
this occasion had so peculiar an aroma as to warrant the 
belief that it must have been drawn from Mrs. Gamp's 
favorite tea-pot. 

When the crowd was densest and the humor at its 



6 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 

height, a calm stranger, evidently from parts unknown, 
approached, and, animated by a sentiment of curiosity, 
asked a bystander the cause of so large and excited a 
gathering. " 'T ain't election-time down here, is it ? " 

" no, we 're buying tickets, sir." • 

" Buying tickets ? — for what ? " ^ 

" For Dickens's Eeadings." 

" Dickens ! Who the d— 1 is Dickens ? " 

" Why, don't you know ? — the great novelist." 

" Never heard of him in all my born days, hut if there 
is any critter on airth that can keep such a crowd together 
with the mercury clean way out of sight, d — d if I don't 
see him !" 

Wliereupon the previously calm stranger took his place 
in the line and enthusiastically proposed three cheers for 
Dickens ! His ultimate opinion is robed in impenetrable 
mystery. 

Besieged without, Ticknor and Fields's establishment 
was finally besieged witliin, and let it be recorded that 
when the sale of tickets did begin, one of the heroines 
who had held her position to the last was, by a common 
impulse of generosity, and by a unanimous vote, allowed 
to take the precedence. 

While the heroic woman within the building was re- 
ceiving the reward of virtue, — it is a great comfort to 
know that virtue does occasionally get rewarded, — a 
gentleman in the line outside took occasion to address 
his neighbors in the following eloquent and impressive 



THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 7 

words. He had been consoling himself with a great deal 
of " tea." " Gen'lemen," said he, waving his right hand 
on high and contemplating the spire of Park Street 
Church with peculiar affection, — " gen'lemen, there are 
but three men who have stamped themselves upon the 
ci\'ilization of the Nineteenth Century. Those men, 
gen'lemen, are Charles Shakespeare, William Dickens, 
and — myself. Let any one deny it who dares ! " Here 
the peer of Charles Shakespeare and Wniiam Dickens 
looked so determined to stamp upon humanity particu- 
larly, as well as upon civilization generally, as to be 
unceremoniously removed by a ^usfrdian of the peace. 
O Dickens, how much " tea " was that day drunk in thy 
name ! How many pairs of lungs had " damp door-steps 
settled on them " because of thee ! 

" Dickens ! " exclaims a young man of ardent tempera- 
ment, " if I did not love his genius I should wish he had 
never been born. To please the object of my affection 
and other less particular friends, I stood eight hours in 
' the cold, cold blawst,' with a viUanous tobacco-pipe be- 
fore me and a shocking bad hat immediately behind, the 
owner of which last-named article beguiled the time by 
poking me in the back, and asking me whether I would 
n't swap tiles and improve my personal appearance. 
After enduring several hours of puffing and poking, I 
rather wished that Charles Dickens had never crossed 
the Atlantic. Wlien I did reach the ticket-office, my 
patience was requited with reserved seats in a rear 



8 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 

gallery ! The friends for whom I fought and froze failed 
to appreciate my valuable services, and assured me that 
it would have been better to have remained at home and 
saved their money. The object of my affections could 
only be appeased by my purcliasing tickets of specu- 
lators, at ten dollars apiece. Upon going down town 
after my arctic expedition, I discovered that I had lost 
an opportunity of making five thousand dollars in stocks ; 
but then, as an offset, I did gain, at considerable cost, 
a first-class influenza that terminated in acute rheu- 
matism, to which I am likely to be subject for the re- 
mainder of my life.' The British government owes me 
a pension." 

Such was the excitement attending the sale of tickets 
for the first course of Dickens's Eeadings in Boston, and 
the second was like unto it ; yet, lest the seemingly 
Munchausen tale be received with incredulity, the report 
of a Boston journal is here, given, verhatim et literatim: — 

"As early as half past seven o'clock in the evening 
the crowd commenced to gather, and a few persons sta- 
tioned themselves at the door of the Meionaon, deter- 
mined to secure good seats even at the cost of a night of 
waiting. From that time to the opening of the doors 
the numbers gradually increased. At ten o'clock p. m., 
about fifty persons had assembled ; at eleven, the number 
had increased to sixty ; at midnight, there were one hun- 
dred in line ; and at two o'clock, from one hundred to 
two hundred were waiting. The line by this time ex- 



THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 9 

tended into Montgomery Place, and various were the 
means devised by those who composed it to make the 
time pass quickly and agreeably. 

" Some of those in waiting brought arm-chairs in which 
to rest their weary limbs, and one person, determined 
to be as comfortable as possible, rolled himself up in 
blankets and stretched out on a mattress which he had 
provided. The crowd were in good spirits, and every 
lititle incident was made the subject of a joke and laugh. 
As usual on such occasions the musical element was not 
wanting, and by the singing of popular airs — ' Johnny 
comes marching Home,' ' John Brown's Body,' ' We won't 
go home till ]\iorning,' etc., etc. — the hours were beguiled, 
more to their own amusement, probably, than to the grati- 
fication of the residents on Montgomery Place, whose 
slumbers must have been somewhat disturbed by the 
noise without. The crowd was not altogether composed 
of representatives from the better portion of our com- 
munity, and ominous black bottles were frequently passed 
from one to the other, the contents of Avhich seemed to 
add not a little to the hilarity of the occasion. 

" This morning the crowd was very great. Many late 
comers not inclined to play fairly were assembled about 
the entrance, determined, if possible, when the doors 
were opened, to make a rush and obtain an early admis- 
sion. Others formed an additional line up Tremont 
Street as far as Montgomery Place. The ' genuine ' line 
extended down the north side of Montgomery Place, 
1* 



10 THE WELCOME IN BOSTON. 

across the end, and out to Tremont Street again. Citizens 
on their way to business were much amused at the bus- 
tling among the crowd of waiters, and the strife after a 
good position in line, and many stopped opposite to view 
the exciting spectacle. The steps and windows of the 
Tremont House were crowded with spectators, and all 
teams stopping in the vicinity were put into requisition 
for standing-places. 

" At about half past eight o'clock the outside door was 
opened. The rush towards it was for a while terrible, 
and it was only by the most strenuous efforts that the 
force of fifteen policemen who were present could hold 
them at bay. As it was, quite a number who had not a 
position in line succeeded in getting within the doors, to 
which so many were anxiously looking forward. In a 
few minutes, however, the police force rallied, and with a 
free use of their clubs, giving not a few an aching head, 
and one at least a wound from which the blood flowed 
freely, they succeeded in clearing the sidewalk of all but 
the original line. After this, the long procession moved 
steadily forward with little interruption until about five 
minutes of nine, when the checks which gave the right to 
purchase tickets, five hundred in number, having been 
all distributed, the doors were closed. The line, which 
even then was some two hundred feet long, was broken 
up, and many of the persons in waiting went away 
disappointed. Others remained to purchase tickets of 
those more fortunate. Several ladies were noticed in 



THE WELCOIVIE IN BOSTON. 11 

line among those who succeeded in obtaining admis- 
sion." 

With this chronicle we may well exclaim " Ohe ! jaTn- 
satis" and, turning to New York, mark the ravages made 
by the Dickens fever upon metropolitan constitutions. 



THE WELCOME IN NEW YORK. 



~VT"OT being a bird, and consequently having no par- 
-^ ^ ticular fondness for worms as an article of diet, I 
never could be made to see the beauties of early rising. 
It is a poetical delusion. It means wet feet in summer 
and cold feet in winter. It means a total want of appre- 
ciation of those delightful day-dreams that possess the 
brain which refuses to wake up all over and emulate the 
lark in a very bad habit. It is satisfactory to look back 
upon my life and know that larks have received no moral 
support from me ; and yet I must confess that when I 
took up the Tribune on the 29th of November, 1867, at 
the respectable and civilized hour of ten o'clock A. M., my 
young blood froze and each particular hair stood on end 
as I read with terror and dismay that tickets for Charles 
Dickens's readings had been selling for two hours ! My 
first impulse was to drink a cup of cold poison and quietly 
retire from this vale of tears in a way becoming disap- 
pointed affections ; but I finally decided that before going 
to the Dickens by a process which would seriously in- 
terfere with my return to a mundane sphere, — a return 



THE WELCOME IN NEW YORK. 13 

which might be desirable should a change of base not 
prove all that fancy painted it, — I would follow the im- 
mortal Mrs. Chick's advice and " make an effort." 

It is an immutable law that " things " are never to be 
found when one's salvation depends upon their imme- 
diate possession. The agony I endured in collecting 
myself on that Friday morning no words can describe. 
Never in my life had I played such an aggravating game 
of hide-and-seek, and I finally rushed out of the house 
witli a white glove on one hand and a black glove on 
the other. Perhaps I walked to Steinway Hall, but my 
private opinion is that I flew on the wings of that bird 
of which I so much disapprove. Whether I walked or 
flew, I know that at eleven o'clock I stood in front of 
Steinway Hall, hopelessly gazing at a queue of my fel- 
low-beings that extended far beyond the bounds of hu- 
man patience. Encountering the glance of a benevolent 
policeman, who seemed to feel for me, and having heard 
that there is safety in the law, I ventured to address 
this imposing guardian of the peace. 

" How long have these people been standing here ? " I 
asked. 

" Well, some on 'em two and some on 'em three hours." 

" And when did people hegin to stand here ? " 

" Nigh about seven o'clock, and they wriggled round 
Irving Place just like a snake." 

" I suppose all the good seats are gone." 

" Certain sure." 



14 THE WELCOME IN NEW YOEK. 

" Wliat do you think my chances would be if I should 
take my place at the end of that file ? " 

" Well, I would n't give twenty-five cents for 'em. By 
the time you get to that 'ere ticket-office, there won't be 
standing-room for sale." 

I gazed at that ticket-office and thought of the touch- 
ing song, " Thou art so near, and yet so far." Once more 
the idea of cold poison suggested itseK, but suddenly I 
was seized with a brilliant inspiration. 

" Have members of the press no privileges ? " I in- 
quired, endeavoring to look like a distinguished indi- 
vidual. 

I am afraid I did not succeed in my attempt, for a 
man in the file, who, under the crushing influence of 
humanity before and behind him, was gradually being 
deprived of his breath, panted out in a shrill voice, 
" Eeckon we 're all wcm&ers of the press to-day ! " 

I glanced reproachfully at that man, nor was I con- 
soled by the tender interest of the policeman, who evi- 
dently regarded members of the press as something lower 
than angels, — which they are. Many are a great deal 
lower. 

" The best thing for you to do is to see Mr. Dolby, and 
you '11 find him inside, — perhaps." 

I went inside. I wandered up and down that capa- 
cious building in vain. Nobody seemed to know that 
any one bearing the name of Dolby had ever been born. 
One Teutonic individual had the impertinence to ask me 



THE WELCOME IN NEW YOEK 15 

" how I spell him, and what for I want him ? " This was 
too much. I was about to beat a hasty retreat when I 
encountered a person who looked as if he possessed con- 
siderable information, but had an inborn reluctance to 
part with any of it. Nevertheless, I ventured tp address 
him in a persuasive voice. 

"Is Mr. Dolby here, sir?" 

"No." (Spoken as if it had been bitten in two.) 

" Has he been here ? " 

" Yes." 

"Do you know where he is?" 

" No." 

" Can you tell me the name of his hotel ? " 

" Westminster." 

Delightful man •! " Conversational " man ! " What a 
noticing " man ! " What a " man " for repartee " ! At last 
I had a lever with which to work. I would employ 
strategy. The greatest battles had been won by it. INIr. 
Dolby was a scholar and a gentleman ; Mr. Dolby was 
handsome ; Mr. Dolby was good-natured. I would appeal 
to him as one human being to another. I would ap- 
peal to him as a son, as a brother, as a husband, as a fa- 
ther ! He might not be a brother, nor a husband, nor a 
father, but he could not possibly escape being a son, and 
the reference to him in oth-er domestic relations would be 
accepted as a tribute to bis worth ; it would signify that, 
if he is not, he ought to be a brother, a husband, and a 
father. I would tell him of the tremendous influence 



16 THE WELCOME IN NEW YORK. 

of the press, and as an original peroration which could 
not fail to take his reason captive, I would tell him that 
" the pen is mightier than the sword ! " 

I did. I wrote Mr. Dolby a letter which would have 
"drawn tears from even the manliest eye," and then 
retired to my native heath to recuperate my shattered 
forces. Need I say that Mr. Dolby hearkened to my 
petition ? There stood beside him as he opened that 
letter a guardian angel in tlie garb of man, who said unto 
Dolby, "The press is a miglity organ; respect its or- 
ganists." 

The way in which I went about with those tickets in 
my pocket ; the way in which I exhibited them to those 
who had no tickets, and, what was more, never expected 
to get any, not being i)eople who would encourage specu- 
lators, ought to make Mr. Dolby feel that he has not lived 
in vain. I slept with those tickets under my pillow, " lest 
somebody should get over the wall of the back yard and 
steal them " ; and had I not lost confidence in banks, I 
should have deposited my treasures in a vault during 
the day. 

Such a crowd as assembled in front of Steinway Hall 
on the night of the first reading ! Carriage after car- 
riage deposited its burden on the sidewalk, while a 
throng of men and boys, who may be called the " outs," 
choked up the passage-way and gazed at the fortunate 
possessors of tickets with about the same expression 
as that with which hungry children eye the contents 



THE WELCOME IN NEW YOEK. 17 

of pastry-cool^s' windows. Speculators to right of us, 
speculators to left of us, speculators in front of us, vol- 
leyed and thundered. The very best seats in the house 
were held by these vampires. They knew it, and great 
was the profit thereof ; for it would Imve cost some people 
a gTeat deal more — in feelings — to have remained away 
than to have paid ten or twenty dollars for a ticket. An 
American public is not to be held in check by gigantic 
swindling ; hence the breed of vampires. 

Past "outs" and speculators, we began the ascent of 
stairs that never were quite so long as on this occasion, 
but which, accomplislied, we felt as Hercules must have 
felt after the termination of one of his labors. The en- 
trance into the hall was quite curious, the assemblage 
being one vast interrogation point. Everybody was on 
the qui.vive to see who had been shrewd enough to secure 
seats, and apparently seemed astonished that anybody 
had been as clever as himself The salutation between 
friends was not the ordinary " How are you ? " but, for 
this night only, " Wliere did you get your ticket ? " Then 
followed a thrilling narration of hairbreadth 'scapes, lis- 
tened to with breathless attention. 

Once seated, it- was a pleasure to look upon the mul- 
titude that completely filled the vast hall. If Charles 
Dickens was not to be tried by his peers — a good fortune 
that never yet befell genius — he had invoked the best 
audience that New York can produce. There were poets, 
authors, artists, actors, and managers ; there were women 

B 



18 THE WELCOME IN NEW YOKK. 

of culture, lawyers, doctors, bankers, and merchant- 
princes. The foiirth estate shone with unusual lustre. 
" Dailies " and " Weeklies " were scattered in every 
direction, and the very air seemed redolent of printer's- 
ink. 

Then Charles Dickens came, and we saw and heard, 
and he conquered ; not all at once, but gradually, slowly, 
and surely. However, " let me not anticipate " ; yet 
must I say that 

"All my reports go with the modest truth ; 
No more, nor clipped, but so." 




THE READING DESK. 



PEN^PHOTOGRAPflS. 



I. 

THE DESK AM) THE EEADEE. 

/^NE glance at the platform is sufficient to convince 
^-^ the audience that Dickens thoroughly appreciates 
" stage effect." A large screen of maroon cloth occu- 
pies the background ; before it stands a light table of 
peculiar design, on the inner left-hand corner of which 
there peers forth a miniature desk, large enough to accom- 
modate the reader's book. On the right hand of the 
table, and somewhat below its level, is a shelf, where 
repose a carafe of water and a tumbler. 'T is " a combi- 
nation and a form indeed," covered with velvet some- 
what lighter in color than the screen. No drapery- 
conceals the table, whereby it is plain that Dickens 
beheves in expression of figure as well as of face, and 
does not throw away everything but his head and arms, 
according to the ordinary habit of ordinary speakers. 
About twelve feet above the platform, and somewhat in 
advance of the table, is a horizontal row of gas-jets with 
a tin reflector ; and midway in both perpendicular gas- 



20 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S HEADINGS. 

pipes there is one powerful jet with glass chimney. By 
this admirable arrangement, Dickens stands against a 
dark background in a frame of gaslight, which tlirows 
out his face and figure to the best advai*tage. With the 
book " Dickens " stranded on the little desk, the come- 
dian Dickens can transform a table into a stage ; and 
had the great novelist concluded, at the last moment, not 
to appear before us, this ingenious apparatus would have 
taught us a lesson in the art of reading. 

He comes ! A lithe, energetic man, of medium stature, 
crosses the platform at the brisk gait of five miles an 
hour, and takes his position behind the table. This is 
Charles Dickens, whose name has been a household word 
in England and America for thirty years ; whose books 
have been the joy and solace of many a weary heart and 
head. A first glance disappointed me. I thought I 
should prefer to have him entirely unlike himself ; but 
when I began to speculate on how Charles Dickens ought 
to look, I gave the matter up, and wisely concluded that 
Nature knew her own intentions better than any one 
else. 

Dickens has a broad, full brow, a fine head, — which, 
for a man of such power and energy, is singularly small 
at the base of the brain, — and a cleanly cut profile. 
There is a slight resemblance between him and Louis 
Napoleon in the latter respect, owing mainly to the 
nose ; but it is unnecessary to add that the faces of the 
two men are totally different. Dickens's eyes are light- 



THE DESK AND THE READER. 21 

blue, and liis mouth and jaw, without having any claim 
to beauty, possess a strength that is not concealed by the 
veil of iron-gray mustache and generous imperial. His 
head is but slightly graced with ii'on-gray hair, and his 
complexion is florid. 

If any one thinks to obtain an accurate idea of Dickens 
from the photographs that flood the country, he is mis- 
taken. He will see Dickens's clothes, Dickens's feat- 
ures, as tjiey appear when Nicholas Nickleby is in the 
act of knocking down Mr. Wackford Squeers ; but he will 
not see what makes Dickens's face attractive, the genial- 
ity and expression that his heart and brain put into it. 
In his photographs Dickens looks as if, previous to posing, 
he had been put under an exhausted receiver and had had 
his soul pumped out of him. Tliis process is no beauti- 
fier. Therefore let those who have not been able to judge 
for themselves believe that Dickens's face is capable of 
wonderfully varied expression. Hence it is the best sort 
of face. His eye is at times so keen as to cause whoever 
is within its range to feel morally certain that it has pene- 
trated to his boots ; at others it brims over with kindliness. 
" It is like looking forward to spring to think of seeing 
your beaming eye again," wrote Lord Jeffrey to Charles 
Dickens years ago, and truly, for there is a twinkle in it 
that, like a promissory note, pledges itself to any amount 
of fun — within sixty minutes. After seeing this twinkle 
I was satisfied with Dickeijs's appearance, and became re- 
signed to the fact of his' not resembling the Apollo Belve- 



22 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 

dere. One thing is certain, — if he did resemble this 
classical young gentleman, he never could have written 
his novels. Laying this flattering unction to my soul, I 
listen. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 23 



II. 

A CHEISTMAS CAEOL. 

"TN December, 1843, all England was roused from selfish 
-^ slumbering by the sound of a carol. It was no carol 
by a bird ; it was sung by a man, and that man Charles 
Dickens. He called it " A Christmas Carol," but the 
Anglo-Saxon world has known it ever since as Tlie Christ- 
mas Carol ; as if, since the birth of Him who made a holy 
day of the twenty-fifth of December, humanity had heard 
no song worthy of being hkened unto it. How wonder- 
fully significant may so small a particle of speech be- 
come ! Twenty-seven years this Carol has been sung, 
yet every twelvemonth its pure melody receives as hearty 
a welcome as Christmas itself. Hungry ears have lis- 
tened to no better hymn of praise, hungry eyes have 
feasted on no truer or more loving counsel. 

Immediately after its first publication, and while the 
Carol was running tlirough twenty editions, that master 
of English, and therefore most genial critic, William M. 
Thackeray, being then on the Continent, received a box of 
novels. It was a welcome box to Thackeray, notwith- 
standing it entailed the necessity of reviewing, for among 
those novels, off which he skimmed the cream, lay the 
Carol that originated a new field of literature, — Dickens's 



24 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

holiday romance, — without which the world of to-day 
would be poor indeed. • 

"Who can listen to objections regarding such a book as 
this ? " wrote big-hearted Thackeray in Eraser's Magazine. 
" It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or 
woman who reads it a personal kindness. The last two 
people I heard speak of it were women ; neither knew 
the other, or the author, and both said, by way of criti- 
cism, ' God bless him ! ' A Scotch philosopher, who 
nationally does not keep Christmas day, on reading the 
book, sent out for a turkey, and asked two friends to 
dine, — this is a fact ! Many men were known to sit 
down, after perusing it, and write off letters to their 
friends, not about business, but out of their fulness of 
heart, and to wish old acquaintances a happy Christmas. 
Had the book appeared a fortnight earlier, all the prize 
cattle would have been gobbled up in pure love and 
friendship, Epping denuded of sausages, and not a turkey 
left in Norfolk. His royal highness's fat stock would 
have fetched unheard-of prices, and Alderman Bannister 
would have been tired of slaying. .... 

" As for Tiny Tim, there is a certain passage in the 
book regarding that young gentleman^ about which a man 
should hardly venture to speak in print or in public, any 
more than he would of any other affections of his private 
heart. There is not a reader in England but that Httle 
creature will be a bond of union between the author and 
him ; and he will say of Charles Dickens, as the woman 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 25 

said just now, ' God bless him ! ' "Wliat a feeling is this 
for a writer to be able to inspire, and what a reward to 
reap ! " 

Well, on the 10th of January, 1853, Mr. Arthur Ry- 
land, a member of the Birmingham Philosophical Insti- 
tution, read a letter from Dickens, received the day after 
a Literary and Artistic Banquet, containing an offer to 
visit Birmingham the following Christmas, and read his 
Christmas Carol, in the Town Hall, for the benefit of 
an embryonic Scientific and Literary Society, to which 
Dickens insisted that as many as possible of the working 
class should be admitted free. " The reading," he said, 
" would take about two hours, with a pause of ten mm- 
utes half-way through. There would be some novelty in 
the thing, as I have never done it in public, though I 
have in private, and (if I may say so) with a great effect 
on the hearers. I was so inexpressibly gratified last 
night by the warmth and enthusiasm of my Birmingliam 
friends, that I feel half ashamed this morning of so poor 
an offer. But as I had decided on making it to you 
before I came down yesterday, I propose it neverthe- 
less." A poor offer indeed ! Dickens had distinguished 
himself in private theatricals ; he had read selections 
from his works before delighted audiences of friends ; 
he had given evidence of such unusual dramatic aljil- 
ity as to render it almost criminal for him to longer 
hide his light under a domestic bushel. To appear as 
a reader of his own writings would be of great pecu- 

2 



26 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S KEADINGS, 

niary benefit to tlie Birmingham Association, besides i ' 
adding one more link to the chain that bound Charles ■ 
Dickens to the people of England. Birmingham ac- i 
cepted the offer with delight, and Charles Dickens made 
a reality of his ideal Christmas Carol. So great a tri- 
umph was then and there achieved as to cause Dick- i 
ens to discover that he had been living but half a life ; I 
and from 1853 to 1869 Great Britain and Ireland hailed I 
Dickens the actor with as much enthusiasm as Dick- 
ens the novelist. 4 
The amateur reader, however, did not visit Birmingham 
entirely ignorant of the effect he was likely to produce, 
having been coaxed and argued into giving an experimen- 
tal reading in the sleepy old city of Peterborough, for the 
purpose of helping the Mechanics' Institute out of debt. 
" Here is an opportunity," wrote Dickens's tempter, 
"for testing the matter without risk. An antediluvian 
country town, an audience of farmers' sons and daughters, 
rural shopkeepers, and a few country parsons, — if inter- 
est can be excited in the stolid minds of such a Boeotian 
assemblage, the success of the reader will be assured 
wherever the English language is spoken. On the other 
hand, if failure results, none will be the wiser outside 
this Sleepy-Hollow circle." The tempter triumphed, | 
Dickens's sole stipulation being that the prices should 
range from a sixpence to two shillings, in order to meet 
the limitations of working-men's incomes. He stipulated 
in vain. Every place was taken a fortnight before the 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 27 

reading, and guineas and haK-guineas were paid for front 

seats ! 

There was little in the paraphernalia of Dickens's first 
reading to remind the public of his last. At one end of 
the large Corn Exchange, where the entertainment was 
given, Dickens caused to be erected a tall pulpit of 
red baize, looking not unlike a Punch-and- Judy show with 
the top taken off. But as the tall red rostrum sug- 
gested a comical, lank oasis left blooming alone in a 
desert of space, it was supported on each side by two 
dummy pulpits of similar construction. Once moimted 
into the middle box, nothing of Dickens was visible but 
his head and shoulders, which perhaps was fortunate, 
if we are to believe a tell-tale supernumerary, who de- 
clares that the great author's legs shook from the begin- 
ning to the end of the reading. For the first time in 
his life, Dickens was reduced to extremities. How little 
he had to fear ! His " uneducated audience " was com- 
posed of the gentry of the country round about ; and 
the vote of thanks which closed the proceedings was 
moved by the senior Marquis of Scotland, and seconded 
by the heir of the wealthiest peer in England. 

The verdict of Peterborough received " confirmation 
strong " in Paris, where Dickens won his most enviable 
laurels from Polyglot audiences, half English and half 
French. Yiardot-Garcia, sister of Malibran, -and the 
greatest living lyric artist, journeyed from her home 



28 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS's READINGS. 

in Baden to pay homage to a brother actor, whenever 
Dickens appeared in the French capital. He never had 
a finer criticism than this, and having had it can 
dispense witli any other. 

Having thus, by way of preface, crossed the Atlantic 
and wandered into the past, I return to Dickens in 
America. 

" Ladies and Gentlemen, — I am to have the pleasure 
of reading to you first, to-night, ' A Christmas Carol ' in 
four staves. Stave One, Marley's Ghost. Marley was 
dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about 
that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergy- 
man, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. 
Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 
'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old 
Marley was as dead as a door-nail." 

At the close of tliis paragraph the critic beside me 
whispers, " Dickens's voice is limited in power, husky, 
and naturally monotonous. If he succeeds in overcoming 
these defc».cts, it will be by dramatic genius." I begin 
' to take a gloomy view of the situation, and wonder why 
Dickens constantly employs the rising inflection, and 
never comes to a full stop ; but we are so pleasantly and 
naturally introduced to Scrooge that my spirits revive. 
" Foul weather did n't know Avhere to have him. Tlie 
heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet could boast of 
the advantage over him in only one respect, — they often 
' came down ' handsomely, and Scrooge never did." Here 



A CHKISTMAS CAROL. 29 

the magnetic current between reader and listener sets in, 
and when Scrooge's clerk " put on his white comforter 
and tried to warm himself at the candle, — in which ef- 
fort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed," — 
the connection is tolerably well established. I see 
old Scrooge, very plainly, growling and snarling at his 
pleasant nephew, and when that nephew invites that 
uncle to eat a Christmas dinner with him, and Dickens 
says that Scrooge said " that he would see him — yes, 
I am very sorry to say he did, — he went the whole 
length of the expression, and said he would see him in 
that extremity, first," — he makes one dive at our sense 
of humor and takes it captive. Dickens is Scrooge 
most decidedly, — just as we have seen him in the book. 
There are the old features, the pointed nose, the thin lips, 
the wiry chin, the frosty rime on head and eyebrows, and 
the shrewd, grating voice. He is the portly gentleman 
with the conciliatory voice on a mission of charity, — 
just the voice in which gentlemen-beggars deliver their 
errands of mercy ; he is twice Scrooge when, the portly 
gentleman remarking that many poor people had rather 
die than go to the workhouse, he replies, " 0, well, you 
know, upon the whole, if they 'd rather die, they had 
better do it and decrease the surplus population " ; and 
thrice Scrooge when, turning upon his clerk, he says, 
" You 11 want all day to-morrow, I suppose ? " It is the 
incarnation of a hard-hearted, hard-fisted, liard-voiced 
miser. 



30 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

" If it 's — if it 's — qiiite convenient, sir." A few 
words, but they denote Bob Cratchit in three feet of 
comforter exclusive of fringe, in well-darned, threadbare 
clothes, with a mild, frightened, lisping voice, so thin 
that you can see through it ! 

Then there comes the change when Scrooge, upon 
going home, " saw in the knocker Marley's face ! " Of 
course Scrooge saw it, because the expression of Dick- 
ens's face, as he rubs his eyes and stares, makes me see 
it, " with a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a 
dark cellar." There is good acting in this scene, and 
there is fine acting when the dying flame leaps up as 
though it cried, " I know him ! Marley's ghost ! " ' 

Scrooge bites his fingers nervously as he peers at 
the ghost, and then with infinite gusto Dickens reads 
that description of Marley, how, "looking through this 
waistcoat, Scrooge could see the two buttons on his coat 
behind" ; how Scrooge grew wondrously perplexed as 
to whether his old partner could sit down after under- 
going such atmospheric changes ; how Scrooge would 
persist in doubting his senses because Marley might be 
"an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb 
of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There 's 
more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you 
are " ; and how Scrooge finally listens to Marley, yet, 
believing that business habits of despatch are quite as 
good for the next world as for this, exclaims with comic 
earnestness, " For Heaven's sake, don't be flowery, Jacob, 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 31 

"W'hatever you are ! " It is excellent, and at the conclusion 
of Stave One, my friend, the critic, and I say, " Dickens 
is an actor." 

Nothing can be better than the rendering of the Yez- 
ziwig party in Stave Two. You behold Scrooge grad- 
ually melting into humanity ; Scrooge as a joyous 
apprentice ; that model of employers, Fezziwig, with 
his comfortable, jo^-ial voice; Mrs. Fezziwig, "one vast 
substantial smile " ; and all the Fezziwigs. Dickens's 
expression, as he relates how "in came the housemaid 
with her cousin the haker, and in came the cook with her 
brother's particular friend the milkman" is delightfully 
comic, wliile his complete rendering of that dance where 
" all were top couj)les at last, and not a bottom one to 
help them," is owing to the inimitable action of his 
hands. They actually perform upon the table, as if it 
were the floor of Fezziwig's room, and every finger 
were a leg belonging to one of the Fezziwig family. 
This feat is only surpassed by Dickens's illustration 
of Sir Eoger de Coverley, as interpreted by Mr. and 
Mrs. Fezziwig, when " a positive light appeared to issue 
from Fezziwig's calves," and he "cut so deftly that he 
appeared to wink with his legs ! " It is a maze of humor. 
Before the close of the stave, Scrooge's horror at sight 
of the young girl once loved by him and put aside for 
gold, shows that Dickens's power is not purely comic. 

Ah, but the best of all is Stave Three ! I distinctly 
see that Cratchit family. There are the potatoes that 



32 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

" knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and 
peeled " ; there is Mrs. Cratchit, fluttering and cack- 
ling like a motherly hen with a young brood of chick- 
ens ; and there is everybody. The way those two 
young Cratchits hail Martha, and exclaim, " There 's 
such a goose, Martha ! " can never be forgotten. By 
some prestidigitation Dickens takes off his own head 
and puts on a Cratehit's ; and when those two young 
gentlemen cry out, " There 's father coming ! Hide, 
Martha, hide ! " they not only clap their hands, but 
they seem to be dancing round Dickens's table. Then 
Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim come in, and Bob's thin 
voice iDipes out, " Hullo ! I say ; why,^ where 's our 
Martha ? " accompanying the question with a perfect 
presentment of humble, simple-hearted disappointment; 
while Mrs. Cratchit shakes her head importantly, and 
replies, " Not coming ! " But murder will out ; and then 
Bob relates " how Tiny Tim " behaved ; " as good as 
gold, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by 
himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you 
ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped 
the people saw him in the church, because he was a 
cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to rememberj 
upon Christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and 
blind men see." There is a volume of pathos in these 
words, which are the most delicate and artistic rendering 
of the whole reading. 

Ah, that Christmas dinner ! I feel as if I were eating 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 33 

every morsel of it. Peter mashes the potatoes with in- 
credible energy ; Belinda sweetens the apple-sauce, and 
smacks her lips so loudly in the tasting as to prove 
that it could not be better ; " the two young Cratchits/' 
" cram spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek 
for goose before their turn " ; and Tiny Tim " beats on 
the table with the handle of his knife, as he feebly cries, 
' Hoorray ! Hoorray ! Hoorray ! ' " in such a still, small 
voice. Moreover, there is that goose ! I see it with 
my naked eye. And 0, the pudding ! " A smell like a 
washing day ! Tliat was the cloth. A smell like an 
eating-house and a pastry-cook's next door to each other, 
with a laundress's next door to that ! That was the pud- 
ding ! " Dickens's sniffing and smelling of that pudding 
would make a starving family believe that they had 
swallowed it, holly and all. It is infectious. 

"What Dickens does is frequently infinitely better than 
anything he says, or the way he says it ; yet the doing 
is as delicate and intangible as the odor of violets, and 
can be no better indicated. Nothing of its kind can 
be more touchingly beautiful than the manner in which 
Bob Cratchit — previous to proposing " a merry Christ- 
mas to us all, my dears, God bless us " — stoops down, 
with tears in his eyes, and places Tiny Tim's withered 
little hand in his, " as if he loved the child, and wished 
to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be 
taken from him." It is pantomime worthy of the finest 
actor. 

2* C 



34 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS's READINGS. 

Equally clever is Bob's attempt to pacify Mrs. Cratcliit, 
when, vipon being desired to toast "Mr. Scrooge, the 
Founder of the Feast," this amiable lady displays an 
amount of temper of which we never believed her capa- 
ble. " My dear ! " says Bob, in an expostulatory tone, 
" my dear ! the children ! Christmas day ! " pointing mys- 
teriously to each one with inimitable naivete. Bob's 
picture ought to be taken at this moment. Indeed, now 
I think of it, I am astonished that artists who illustrate 
such of Dickens's books as are read by him do not 
make him their model. They can never approach his 
conception, they can never equal his execution, and to the 
virtue of truth would be added the charm of resembling 
the author. 

Admirable is Mrs. Cratchit's ungracious drinking to 
Scrooge's health, and ]\Iartha's teUing how she had 
seen a lord, and how he " was much about as tall as 
Peter ! " 

It is a charming cabinet picture, and so likewise is 
the glimpse of Christmas at Scrooge's nephew's. The 
plump sister is " satisfactory, 0, perfectly satisfactory," 
and Topper is a magnificent fraud on the understand- 
ing, a side-splitting fraud. I see Fred get off the sofa 
and stamp at liis own fun, and I hear the plump sister's 
voice when she guesses the wonderful riddle, " It 's your 
uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge ! " Altogether, Dickens is better 
than any comedy. 

What a change in Stave Four! There sit the gray- 




BOB CRATCIIIT AND TINY TIM. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 8§ 

haired rascal, old Joe, with his crooning voice, Mrs. 
Dilber, and those robbers of dead men's shrouds. 

There is something positively and Shakespearianly 
weird in the langh and tone of the charwoman. " Let the 
charwoman alone to be the first," she cries. " Let the 
laundress alone to be the second ; and let the undertaker's 
man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here 's 
a chance! If we have n't all three met here without 
meaning it ! " Unconsciously the three witches of " Mac- 
beth " arise before the imagination, which perceives by 
Dickens's treatment of this short but graphic scene how 
fine a sketch he would make did fate ever cast him for 
one of the sisters three. 

One turn of the kaleidoscope and we stand before the 
body of the plundered unknown man ; another, and there 
sit the Cratchits weeping over Tiny Tim's death, a 
scene that would be beyond aU praise were Bob's cry, 
" My little, little child ! " a shade less dramatic. Here, 
and only here, Dickens forgets the nature of Bob's 
voice, and employs all the power of his own, carried 
away apparently by the situation. Bob would not 
thus give vent to his feelings. Finally, there is Scrooge, 
no longer a miser, but a human being, screaming at the 
" conversational " boy, the " Itinerary of London," in 
Sunday clothes, to buy him the prize turkey " that never 
could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would 
have snapped 'em off in a minute, like sticks of sealing- 
wax." There is Bob Cratchit behind time, trying " to 



1 

36 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS, | 

overtake nine o'clock " that fled fifteen minutes before ; , 
there is Scrooge poking Bob in the ribs, and vowing he 1 
will raise his salary ; and there is at last happiness for all, ' 
as Tiny Tim exclaims, " God bless us, every one ! " 

I do not see how " The Christmas Carol " can be read 
and acted better. The only improvement possible is in 
" The Ghosts," who are perhaps too monotonous, — a way 
ghosts have when they return to earth. It is generally 
believed that ghosts, being " damp, moist, uncomfortable 
bodies," lose their voices beyond redemption and are 
obliged to pipe through eternity on one key. I am at a 
loss to see the wisdom of this hypothesis. Solemnity and 
monotony are not synonymous terms, yet every theatrical 
ghost insists that they are, and Dickens is no exception 
to the rule. If monotony be excusable in any one, how- 
ever, it is in him ; for when one actor is obliged to rep- 
resent twenty-three different characters, giving to every 
one an individual tone, he may be pardoned if his ghosts 
are not colloquial. " 

Talk of sermons and churches ! There never was a 
more beautiful sermon than this of " The Christmas 
Carol." Sacred names do not necessarily mean sacred 
things. 




l|Sa. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 37 



III. 

DAVID COPPEEFIELD. 

'XTOTHIISl'G is more unjust than severe criticism of an 
-^ ^ artist heard or seen but once. Dickens's first ren- 
dering of " David Copperfield " disappointed me sadly in 
the more serious portions, and had I been obliged to give 
an opinion then and there, I should have declared that 
his tragedy needed force, and that his description of the 
shipwreck at Yarmouth lacked vividness and intensity. 
Second and third hearings proved to me that Dickens de- 
pends upon the sympathy of his audiences for inspiration, 
and does not do -himself full justice, unless warmly sup- 
ported by them. This dependence is especially apparent 
in " David Copperfield," wdiich is undoubtedly the most 
difficult and most exhausting of his five readings, — being 
the most dramatic. I write of the reader at his best. 

Ordinarily, descriptions are " most tolerable and not to 
be endured." In novels the eye -blinks at them, and 
rushes off in pursuit of dialogue. In hearing them read, 
the ear stops itself with imaginary cotton until the plot 
thickens and somebody says something to somebody else. 
But with Boz all signs fail. You cannot possibly over- 
look his descriptions if you would. He runs his pen 
through the heart of a fact so dexterously — after the 



3S PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKEXS'S READINGS. 

manner of naturalists — as to cause it to lie before you 
in all its length, breadth, and local coloring, and you can 
no more ignore it than you can ignore sunshine. Attrac- 
tive, then, as Dickens's descriptions are in reading, they 
become doubly so when read by him. "Without being an 
orator, possessing (as has been previously stated) a natu- 
rally monotonous voice, he, by the keen appreciation of 
his own meaning and by a most original emphasis, devel- 
ops every possibility of his text, and what was previously 
latent stands out in bold relief. It did not take me long 
to discover that " Dickens," however familiar, becomes a 
revelation when interpreted by the author. 

Thus when Dickens begins his reading of " David Cop- 
perfield " with the description of the interior of Mr. Peg- 
gotty's boat-house, I realize that I have never before had 
a good look at the walls whereon " were* colored pictures 
of Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and 
of Daniel in yellow being cast into a den of green lions." 
I never clearly saw Mrs. Gummidge until I looked 
into Ms face, and heard her declare that she was " a lone, 
lorn creetur, and everythink went contrairy with her." 
It is the look and querulous voice of the good old grum- 
bling soul. Soon we are in the presence of generous, 
genial Mr. Peggotty, who grows quite red in the face 
with delight at sliaking hands with Copperfield and 
Steerforth, and chucks little Em'ly under his arm 
just as if she were there to be chucked. In his broad, 
hearty, tarpaulin voice, he joyfully and simply tells of 



DAVID COPPEEFIELD. 39 

Ham's courtship, concluding with those mighty blows 
upon Ham's imaginary shoulders that make us wonder 
how Dickens can poke tlie air so naturally as to make us 
believe it to be Ham. Yet surely this is Ham, bash- 
ful, rubbing his hands with emotion, and, with a tear in 
his voice, saying, " I 'd lay down my life for her, Mas'r 
Davy, — 0, most content and cheerful. There ain't a 
gentl'man in all the land, nor yet a sailing upon all the 
sea, that can love his lady more than I love her, though 
there 's many a common man as could say better what 
he meaut." Childlike, noble-hearted Ham! — childlike 
saving in the kiss Dickens wafts after Em'ly, wherein 
there is more of the salon than of the boat-house. 

" Mr. Peggotty," says Steerforth, " you are a thorough- 
ly good fellow and deserve to be as happy as you are 
to-night, my hand upon it. Ham, I give you joy, my 
boy. My hand upon that, too ! " Dickens's change of 
intonation and expression in addressing the father and 
son is striking, but I am inclined to think too striking, 
for had Steerforth exhibited the hatred of Ham that 
darkens Dickens's face, it could not have passed un- 
noticed. It is a hatred admirably suited to Steerforth 
when later he calls Ham " a chuckle-headed fellow " 
and vehemently rails at himself " in that devil's bark of 
a boat," but not before. Ah, Steerforth, other actors 
may interpret yo2/. better, but I doubt whether any one 
can equal the solemn yet tender sorrow with which 
Dickens, as Copperfield, exclaims, "0 God forgive you. 



40 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Steerforth, to touch that passive hand in love and friend- 
ship, never, never more ! " It is a sigh from a heavy, 
heavy heart. 

First, in Chapter Second, is that second glimpse of fret- 
ful Mrs. Gummidge, who is as complete a character as 
if she were a whole play, and then Dickens again be- 
comes old Mr. Peggotty. There never was more rough- 
shod naivete than his when he calls himself a " babby in 
regard o' Em'ly ; not to look at, but to — to consider on, you 
know," and thinks his beautiful love for his little niece 
must be " along of my havin' played with Em'ly so much 
when she was a child, and havin' made believe as we was 
lions, and whales, and sharks, and French, and Turks, and 
porpuses, and every variety of forriners." We could listen 
to the simple prattle of this overflowing heart all the 
evening ; but alas ! the pleasant comedy must give way 
to drama. Quickly the scene changes. Here is Ham, 
with horror-stricken face, whispering that " Em'ly 's run 
away " ; here is Copperfield reading in a plaintive voice 
Em'ly's touching letter to her old lover. Dazed and 
stunned, the loved and loving uncle asks, in a gTuff voice, 
"Who's the man? I want to know his name." Poor 
Ham ! "It is your friend Steerforth," he says to 
Copperfield with concentrated emotion, "and he 's a 
damned villain ! " Is tliis caged lion thirsting for ven- 
geance upon Em'ly's seducer the genial soul of a min- 
ute ago ? I see Mr. Peggotty pull down' his great-coat 
from its peg in the corner and struggle to put it on 



DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 41 

as he cries out, " Bear a hand with this ! I 'm struck of 
a heap, and can't do it" ; and as his mind wanders in the 
agonized refrain, " I 'm going fur to seek my niece. I 'm 
going fur to seek my Em'ly. No one stop me ! I 'm 
going to seek her fur and wide ! " Who could have 
believed that in fretful Mrs. Gummidge Mr. Peggotty 
had cherished unawares an angel of peace that would 
bring comfort to his bruised s .")ul in its hour of trial ? 
Yet it is even so, and here she stands, her trembling 
liands affectionately stroking Dan'l, her querulous voice 
softened, reproaching herself for ever having been a 
" worrit," and gradually soothing the old man to tears. 

How Dickens can pass from grave to gay without a 
moment's pause is a problem difticult to solve. He does, 
however; and while eyes are still dimmed by the sad 
scene in the boat-house, we find ourselves laughing 
heartily at David Copperfield in his " top set of chambers 
in Buckingham Street Strand," where he "lived princi- 
pally on Dora and coffee," and at which ecstatic era of 
his existence he "laid the foundation of all the corns he 
ever had." " If the boots at that period," declares Cop- 
perfield, in a tone that is Dickens's own, and nobody's 
else, "could only be produced and compared with the 
natural size of my feet, they would show in a most affect- 
ing manner what the state of my heart was." More ri- 
diculous still is Mrs. Crupp, the housekeeper, whose voice 
and facial expression are as good farce acting as humanity 
deserves. If her manner of asking for " a little tincture 



42 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

of cardamiims, mixed with rhubarb, and flavored with 
seven drops of the essence of cloves ; or, if he had not 
such a tiling by him, vnth a little 'brandy" could be im- 
possibly caught, transfixed, and perpetuated forever, so 
that everybody might have it in the house and take it 
whenever a depressed state of the market or of individual 
finances required, it would harden many a softening brain 
and materially decrease the number of suicides. Mrs. 
Dickens Crupp, or Mrs. Crupp Dickens, whichever she 
may be, is a fascinating woman. " What makes you sup- 
pose there is any young lady in the case, Mrs. Crupp ? " 
asks Copperfield. 

It is worth a day's imprisonment, with Tupper's Pro- 
verbial Philosophy as an article of diet, to hear Mrs. 
Crupp's reply : — 

" Mr. Copperfull, I 'm a mother myseK Your boots 
and your waist is equally too small, and you don't eat 
enough, sir, nor yet drink. Sir, I have laundressed other 
young gentlemen besides you. It was but the gentleman 
who died here before yourself that fell in love, — with 
a bar-maid, — and had his waistcoats took in directly, 
though much swelled by drinking. Keep a good heart, 
sir, and know your walue. If you was to take to some- 
tliing, sir, — if you was to take to nine-pins now, which 
is a wery healthy game, — you might find it divert your 
mind and do you good." 

Well, Mrs. Crupp no sooner makes her exit than 
Copperfield gTcets his friends, the Micawbers, and Trad- 



DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 43 

dies. Traddles says but three words, "Not at all," 
during the entire visit; nevertheless, three words are 
quite enough for Dickens to make a man out of, and 
Traddles is no myth, but a confiding human being, with 
a propensity to eat his own fingers. Traddles is "not 
at all," and " not at all " is Traddles. 

In Micawber, Dickens undergoes as much of a trans- 
formation as if he enjoyed a patent-right to the nec- 
romancer's " Presto, change." I see him " swelling wis- 
ibly before my wery eyes," as he tips backward and 
forward, first on his heels and then on his toes. Before 
he stops swelHng, he becomes just about the size of our 
ideal Micawber ; his face, quite apoplectic in hue, is 
fenced in by a wall of shirt-collar ; he twirls his eye-glass 
with peculiar grace ; and when he exclaims, " My dear 
Copperfield, this is lux-u-rious ; this is a way of life 
which reminds me of the period when I was myself in a 
state of celibacy," — nearly choking himself to death be- 
fore he arrives at " a state of celibacy," — the picture is 
complete. It is Micawber in " one of those momentous 
stages in the life of man," when he has " fallen back /or a 
spring," and, previous to " a vigorous leap," is quite ready 
to fortify himself and the dearest partner of his greatness 
with a bachelor dinner and punch. Micawber's waiting 
for things to " turn up " ; his eloquent tribute to " the 
influence of Woman in the lofty character of Wife " ; 
his magnificent trifling with the word " Discount " ; and 
the all-pervading cough, as inseparable from his speech 
as oxygen from air, are delectable. 



44 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Dickens could no more be Micawber without that 
cough than Micawber could have ever been at all with- , 
out Dickens. It is the salt that gives the character 
savor. None but a great man misunderstood ever had 
such a propensity to choke. And when Mr. Micawber I 
does cough, the two lapels of hair brushed above Dick- j 
ens's ears, appear to be drawn by capillary attraction 
towards the sentiments spoken, and, waxing rampant, nod 
approvingly, as if to say, " Just so." Neither cough nor 
lapels are to be found in the text, but when did finite 
words ever express a man's soul ? ■ 

Mr. Micawber is so great a man as to render it im- 
possible for Mrs. Micawber to be a greater. Never- 
theless, she is. Those lapels subside, and Mrs. Micaw- 
ber sits before you, sipping her punch, smoothing her 
hair, "comparatively lovely," as Copperfield observes, 
and blandly discusses Mr. Micawber's prospects. To de- 
scribe the indescribable is absurd ; yet it must not go 
unrecorded that Mrs. Micawber's sublimest moment is 
reached when she heroically remarks, " That, at least, is 
mi/ view, my dear Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of 
the obligation which I took upon myself when I repeated 
the irrevocable words, ' I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins.' I 
read -the service over with a bedroom candle, on the 
previous night, and the conclusion I derived from it was, 
that I never could or would desert. Mr. Micawber." As 
she utters these words, Mrs. Micawber is not to be 
trifled with. There is a determination in her eye that is 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 45 

equal to any amount of opposition ; yet, if possible, her 
courage takes still another flight, and her mien becomes 
still more majestic in her final answer to her final argu- 
ment : " And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable 
position or employment. Where does that responsibility 
rest ? Clearly on society. Then I would make a fact so 
disgraceful known, and boldly challenge society to set it 
right. It appears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that 
what Mr. Micawber has to do is to throw down the 
gauntlet to society, and say, in effect, * Show me who will 
take that up. Let the party immediately step forward.' " 
Why the party does not immediately step forward, the 
party alone can explain, for Mrs. ]\Iicawber has her eye 
on him, and looks as if the secrets of his prison-house 
were no secrets at all to Imr, and that the perennial 
employment of Mr. Micawber, on remunerative terms, 
would be but slight compensation for her discreet si- 
lence. 

Then the account of that dinner ! Language is usually 
thrown away upon readers ; it is snubbed unmercifully, 
as if every word wore the same hue instead of being 
possessed of a peculiar coloring, wdiich is shaded, how- 
ever, according to situation. Dickens is an artist, and 
therefore never takes language in vain. He embraces 
every opportunity ; hence, when he tells us that " the 
pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a dchisive pie, the 
crust being like a disappointed phrenological head, — 
full of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular under- 



46 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

neath ! " that adjective " delusive " prepares us for all the 
good things to come. It takes aim and fires at the pie, 
bringing down pigeons, crust, and all. 

The pie no sooner disappears than merriment ceases, 
and Mr. Peggotty in all his noble simplicity relates to 
Copperfield how he went through France "fur to seek 
his niece." " And many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has 
had a daughter about Em'ly's age, I 've found a-waiting 
for me, at our Saviour's cross outside the village, fur to 
do me sim'lar "kindnesses. Some has had daughters as 
was dead. And God only knows how good them moth- 
ers was to me ! " Tears ? yes, tears are in the old sailor's ij 
eyes, and he is not the only one who brushes them away. 
" I never doubted her. No ! not a bit ! On'y let her see. 
my face, — on'y let her heer my voice, — on'y let my 
stanning afore her bring to her thoughts of the home she 
fled away from, and the child she had been, — and if shq 
had growed to be a royal lady, she 'd have fell down al; 
my feet ! " Wliat a lesson of love and charity -is taught 
in these few solemn words and that expressive gesture J 
of the arm ! " All that troubles me is, to think that any 
harm might come to me afore this money was give back. 
If I was to die, and it was lost or stole, or elseways 
made away with, and it was never know'd by liim but 
what I 'd accepted of it, I believe the t' other world 
would n't hold me ! I believe I must come back ! " I 
Grand old Mr. Peggotty! (for it is he, not Dickens, 
that speaks,) well may everything be hushed in reverence 



I 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 47 

as he steps out into tlie rigorous night, for there is har- 
bored within liis breast an angel of the Lord. 

The snow has suddenly ceased to fall, and all is 
again sunshine. Copperfield is steeped in Dora, and 
romantically calling on the night to shield his Dora 
"from mice, to which she had a great objection." There 
are not many more delightful comedies than this short 
scene at Miss Mills's. On the stage Miss Mills would 
be a silly supernumerary, in a doubtful white muslin 
dress, with no more idea of the importance of her one 
little remark than a dejected canary-bird has of the 
importance of sj)ecie payment. But the art with whicli 
Dickens rescues the most trifling character from ob- 
scurity is positively marvellous. Wlien Miss Mills is 
" very sorry her pai^a is not at home," that young lady 
proves herself to be an admirable actress. The love- 
making between Dora and Copperfield is perfect; per- 
fect also is the little dog Jip, though he does noth- 
ing but bark. When Copperfield asks Dora if she 
can love a 'beggar, and she begins to cry and "take 
on" and wants to go to Julia Mills, and Copperfield 
ravages a work-box for a smelling-bottle, and applies an 
ivory needle-case instead, and drops all the needles over 
Dora ; and when at last the pretty doll is soothed and 
her lover asks, " Is your heart mine still, dear Dora ? " 

" yes ! yes ! it 's all yours. Only don't be dread- 
ful ! Don't talk about begcrars ! " 

" My dearest love, the crust well earned — " 



48 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

" yes ; but I don't want to hear any more about 
crusts. And after we are married Jip must have a viut- 
ton-chojp every day at ttvclve, or he 'II die I " — Dickens is so 
funny as to make any one who loves humor as tenaciously 
as most people love their lives, feel deeply indebted to him. 

" 0, because I am such a little goose, and she knows 
I am ! " she being Mary Anne, the servant who had " a 
cousin in the Life Guards, with such long legs that he 
looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else ! " Well, 
into that short sentence, with its accompanying expres- 
sion, Dickens condenses the whole of Coiiperfield's Child- 
wife ; yet not the whole, for the pretty little creature 
has a heart full of love for her husband, and signs her 
own death-warrant as she says, with plaintive sentiment, 
"When you miss what you would like me to be, and 
what I think I never can be, say ' StiU my foolish child- 
wife loves me ' ; for indeed I do." 

But the childlike prattle is soon forgotten in the storm 
raging at Yarmouth on that terrible September night ; in 
the appearance off the coast next morning of a shipwrecked 
schooner from Spain or Portugal ; in the mad frenzy of 
the sea ; in the daring of the solitary man who wears 
a singular red cap, that he waves while clinging to the 
mast, and who was the once dear friend, — Steerforth ; 
in the sublime courage of Ham, who " watched the 
sea until there was a great retiring wave, when he dashed 

in after it At length he neared the WTeck. He 

was so near that with one more of his vigorous strokes he 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 49 

would be clinging to it, when a high, green, vast hillside 
of water moving on shoreward from beyond the ship, he 
seemed to leap up into it loith a mighty hound, and the 
ship loas gone I " 

With the going down of that ship, — with the solemn, 
significant nod of the fisherman who leads Copperfield 
to the shore where Steerforth lies " with his head upon 
his arm, as he had often lain at school," — all doubt as to 
Dickens's tragic power is at an end. Thrilling as this 
fine description is in reading, it becomes still more so 
when recited by the author ; yet it is no ill compliment 
to him to say that it is capable of even greater eftect. 
The scene admits of wonderful scope for a mighty voice 
and mighty action. 

Take it for all in all, David Copperfield is an extraor- 
dinary performance. On the stage, fine actors might 
render Steerforth and Copperfield better, and might 
do as much justice to Mr. Peggotty and Ham. A 
fine actress might throw more pathos into Emily's let- 
ter ; but Mrs. Crupp, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, Traddles, 
Dora, and Julia Mills are incomparable, and no one 
actor living can embody the twelve characters of this 
reading with the individuality given them by Dick- 
ens, unaided, too, as he is, by theatrical illusion. Few 
realize what a triumph of art it is to overcome the 
depressing influence of the lecture-room. 



50 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 



IV. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOEKSHIRE 

SCHOOL. 

""VTO Englisli novelist, living or dead, lias created as 
-^ ^ many dramatic pictures as Dickens, therefore it is 
not surprising that a large majority of liis novels should 
have been adapted to the stage. Born an actor, Dickens 
regards everything from a dramatic stand-pomt. Even in 
reading you see his characters talk. So natural is his 
dialogue, that whole scenes may be taken from his books 
for private theatricals, without any adaptation whatever. 
They will play themselves, provided the amateurs are 
endowed with ordinary intelligence, and it is whispered 
in Gath that private theatricals are the severest test to 
which any literary work can be put. This power is pecu- 
liarly Dickensesque, and certainly other noA^elists could 
not publicly interpret their own works with similar effect. 
They may read skilfully from the poets, or they may 
gracefully deliver lectures, as Thackeray once did, but 
their novels are constructed on entirely different prin- 
ciples, and cannot possibly be set before an audience after 
the manner of Dickens. It is in the genius of Dickens 
to hold the mirror up to nature on the stage. 

That wonderfully knowing person, Monsieur On Dit, 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOEKSHIEE SCHOOL. 51 

who is perpetually " cooling his eyes " and ears at other 
people's key-holes, most positively declares that Dickens 
seriously objects to the dramatization of his novels ; but 
as Dickens is held responsible for many opinions that 
never entered into his most fantastic dreams, it is quite 
safe to conclude that he makes no such wholesale opposi- 
tion. For an author to protest against very bad adapta- 
tions very badly acted, is natural ; but a clever dramati- 
zation cleverly delineated is far more likely to please 
than displease him. Dickens's real opinion is probably 
better defined in that chapter of "Mcholas Nickleby" 
descriptive of the supper given to Manager Crummies 
prior to his departure for America, at which a very signifi- 
cant conversation ensues between Nicholas and a literary 
gentleman who had dramatized two hundred and forty- 
seven novels as fast as they liad come out, — some of 
them faster than they had come out, — and was a literary 
gentleman in consequence. 

" ' Did you ever hear a definition of fame, sir ? ' asks 

the literary gentleman ' When I dramatize a book, 

sir, that 's fame — for its author.' 

" ' So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry Abershaw 
have handed down to fame the names of those on whom 
they committed their most impudent robberies ? ' said 
Nicholas. 

" ' I don't know anything about that, sir,' answered the 
literary gentleman. 

" ' Shakespeare dramatized stories which had previously 
appeared in print, it is true,' observed Nicholas. 



52 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

" ' Mecaning Bill, sir ? ' said the literary gentlemarL ' So 
he did. Bill was an adapter, certainly, so lie was — and 
very well lie adapted too ^- considering.' 

" ' I was about to say,' rejoined Nicholas, ' that Shake- 
speare derived some of his plots from old tales and le- 
gends in general circulation ; but it seems to me that 
some of the gentlemen of your craft at the present day 
have shot very far beyond him — ' 

" ' You 're quite right, sir,' interrupted the literary 
gentleman, leaning back in his chair and exercising his 
tooth-pick. ' Human intellect, sir, has progressed since 
his time — is progressing — will progress — ' 

" ' Shot beyond him, I mean/ resumed Nicholas, ' in 
quite another respect, for, whereas he brought within 
the magic circle of his genius traditions peculiarly 
adapted to his, purpose, and turned familiar things into 
constellations which should enlighten the world for ages, 
you drag within the magic circle of your dulness sub- 
jects not at all adapted to the purposes of the stage, and 
debase as he exalted. For instance, you take the uncom- 
pleted works of living authors, fresh from their hands, 
wet from the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the 
powers and capacities of your actors, and the capability 
of your theatres, finish unfinislied works, hastily and 
crudely vamp up ideas not yet worked out by their 
original projector, but which have doubtless cost him 
many thoughtful days and sleepless nights ; by a com- 
parison of incidents and dialogue, down to the very last 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT TH^ YOEKSHIRE SCHOOL. 53 

word he may have ^^Titten a fortnight before, do your 
utmost to anticipate his plot ; all this without his per- 
mission, and against his will ; and then, to crowTi the 
whole proceeding, publish in some mean pamphlet, an 
inimeanin;^ farrago of garbled extracts from his work, 
to which you put your name as author, with the honor- 
able distinction annexed, of having perpetrated a hundred 
other outrages of the same description. Now, show me 
tlie distinction between such pilfering as this and pick- 
ing a man's pocket in the street ; unless, indeed, it be 
that the legislature has a regard for pocket-handkerchiefs, 
and leaves men's brains, except when they are knocked 
out by violence, to take care of themselves.' 

" ' ]\Ien must live, sir,' said the literary gentleman, 
shrugginu; his shoulders. 

" ' That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,' 
replied Nicholas ; ' but, if you put it upon that ground, I 
have nothing more to say than that if I were a writer of 
books, and you a thirsty dramatist, I would rather pay 
your tavern-score for six months — large as it might be 
— than have a niche in the Temple of Fame, with you 
for the humblest corner of my pedestal, through six 
lumdred generations.' " In this stinging retort, Nicho- 
las Nickleby is evidently the mouthpiece of his author, 
who has been subjected to similar treatment, without 
any power of redress. It is hardly possible to conceive 
of more flagrant injustice, yet Dickens is as much a vic- 
tim to this species of robbery as he was thirty years ago. 



54 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DIGKENS'S READINGS. 

Many critics are opposed to the dramatization of any- 
novel whatsoever, on the ground that no play can give 
the original work entire, and that at best it must be a 
sketch with much left to the imagination. As a rule, 
this opposition is wise, because, as a rule, novels are 
imfit to be trusted outside of their covers. Dickens is 
an exception ; and any one who remembers Burton's 
" Captain Cuttle," the late J. M. Field's " Mantilini," Mrs. 
Field's " Smike," Charlotte Cushman's " Nancy Sykes," E. 
L. Davenport's " Bill Sykes," and James W. Wallack's 
" Fagin," will never cease to congratulate himself upon 
seeing Dickens embodied. To condemn a sketch, is to 
be ignorant of the fact tliat an artist frequently puts 
more inspiration into it than into more lengthy and elab- 
orate work, for the reason that the colors can be laid en 
in a moment of enthusiasm. The sketch of a master 
is a daring concentration of his genius. Putting Dick- 
ens on the stage finely, is stamping every character in- 
delibly upon the mind. It is quite j)ossible to forget 
■what we read, but it is impossible to forget a fine picture 
that talks as well as looks. Tlie terrible lesson of " Oliver 
Twist " is not fully learned until taught by the actor. If 
we object to Sketches from Boz in the theatre, we must, 
to be logical, object to Sketches from Boz hy Boz in the 
lecture-room. What lover of Dickens is prepared to do 
this ? And who will forego the delight of supping upon 
delicious tidbits because he cannot have put before him 
the entire joint off which these tidbits have been cut ? 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 55 

Of all the Dickens dramatizations, tliat of " Nicholas 
Nickleby " is, perhaps, most familiar to the public. In 
spite of this fact, Dickens more fully fills out the picture 
than we can ever expect to see it filled on the stage. 
Small parts, however important to the ensemble, are in- 
variably delegated to incompetent actors, and theatrical 
children are the dreariest of all spectacles. 

Dickens's Squeers is a complete embodiment. From 
beginning to end he is the brutal, cunning, diabolically 
funny beast the author's fancy paints him, and it is com- 
plimentary to Dickens's versatility of facial expression to 
sa5^ that with his one eye, with the blank side of his face 
much puckered up, and with the corners of his mouth 
drawn the wrong way, he looks the monster he depicts. 

" This is twopenn' 'orth of milk, is it, waiter ? " The 
mug is not on that desk, but it seems to be, as Mr. 
Squeers looks into it and gives his order. " What a rare 
article milk is, to be sure, in London ! Just fill that mug 
up with lukewarm water, William, will you ? " 

Then both eyes are wide open, the sinister appearance 
vanishes, and there stands the waiter, William, asking if 
it must be filled, " To the wery top, sir ? Why, the milk 
will be drownded ? " 

" Serve it right for being so dear " ; and back comes 
Squeers in a jiffy. His stirring of that milk and water, 
exclaiming the while, " Here 's richness," and his talking 
to those hungry little boys looking on with hungry eyes, 
about conquering their passions and not being eager after 



56 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

•■'vittles," must rejoice the soul of the devil, if that distin- 
guished individual has such an unnecessary appendage. 
There is an " atmosphere " about Dickens's Squeers 
which impresses us with the belief that he enjoys be- 
ing a brute and is not an actor trying to be brutal. 
Mrs. Squeers, too, — she who thanked God for not being 
a grammarian, — is quite as well indi\ddualized as her 
more important husband. The short dialogues between 
Squeers and herself are quite entertaining, — after tlieir 
pecidiar fashion, — the climax being attained when, with 
an eye to ISTickleby's accommodation, Squeers asks, " Who 
sleeps in Brooks's bed, my dear ? " " In Brooks's bed ? " 
replies IVIrs. Squeers, in her most winning manner ; " well, 
there 's Jennings, — there 's little Bolder, — there 's Gray- 
marsh, — and there 's "What's-his-name." Mrs. Squeers 
makes each syllable an independent name, so that our 
mind's eye contemplates ten boys in Brooks's bed. 

" So there is. Yes ! Brooks's is full " ; and Squeers 
out-Squeers himself when, turning to poor Nickleby, he 
asks, " Do you wash ?" " Occasionally," replies the aston- 
ished young A. M. 

" Umph ! T don't know what towel to put you on. T 
know there 's a place on somebody's towel ; but if you '11 
make shift with your pocket-handkerchief to-morrow 
morning, Mrs. Squeers will arrange that in the course of 
the day." 

Search through every edition of Dickens known to the 
public, — their name is legion, — and you will not find 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOKKSHIRE SCHOOL. 57 

that inquiry about washing, nor Mcldeby's reply, nor that 
place in the towel, nor that pocket-handkerchief, nor in 
fact many of the cleverest "points" made by Dickens, 
which interpolations flash upon us as unexpectedly as 
comets, and give some good people much concern because 
they are not down in the book ! These comets dash about 
most wildly in the first school-room scene, where, in re- 
viewing the first class, Squeers is in Ms element. " W-i-n, 

win, d-e-r, der, winder, preposition, a casement B-o-t, 

hot, t-i-n, tin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, adjective, a knowl- 
edge of plants. Wlien he has learned that bottinney 
means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. 
That 's our system, ISTickleby. It 's exactly like the use 
of the globes." 

" Third boy, what is a horse ? " 

" A beast, sir ! " (Poor little boy, what a frightened 
little voice it is !) 

" So it is, ain't it, Nickleby ? " 
" I believe there is no doubt of that, sir." 
" Of course there ain't. A horse is a quadruped, and 
quadruped 's Latin, or Greek, or Hchreiv, or some other 
language that 's dead and deserves to he, for beast." No- 
body who has not heard Dickens's Squeers make this 
profound explanation knows lioiv satirical and funny it is. 
Squeers's reading of the, boys' letters is good enough to 
make us wish those letters would never finish. When 
" Graymarsh's maternal aunt " thinks Mrs. Squeers " must 
be a Acmgel," and when Mr. Squeers, in acknowledging the 

3* 



58 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

eulogy upon himself, sagely observes that " a good man 
struggling with destiny is — a spectacle for things i7i general" 
fiendish humor runs riot, yet does not attain its climax 
until the delivery of the Christian communicEftion from 
" Mohhss mother-in-law." " Mobbs's mother-in-law took to 
bed on hearing that he would n't eat fat and has had a suc- 
cession of cold and hiling water alternately running down 
her lack ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, 
where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with his vittles ; 
and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the 
cow's-liver broth, after his good master had asked a bless- 
ing on it. This was told her in the London newspapers, 
— not by Mr. Squeers, for he is too kind and too good to 
set anybody against anybody. Mobbs's mother-in-law is 
sorry to find Mobbs is discontented, which is sinful and 
horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a hap- 
pier state of mind. With this view she has also stopped 
his halfpenny a week pocket-money, and given a double- 
bladed knife with a corkscrew in it, which she had 
brought on purpose for him, to the missionaries. A sulky 
state of feebng won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment 
must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me ! " What varnish 
is to an oil-painting, Dickens's delivery is to this letter, 
wherein satire and humor share equal honors ; and if in 
Squeers's first interviews with Nickleby, Dickens had 
introduced the following speech wherein the proprietor 
of Dotheboys Hall attains a more characteristic latitude 
than on any other occasion, he would have drawn, if not 




NICHOLAS AND SMIKE. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 59 

a full-length, at least a three-quarters portrait of his 
devilish hero. 

" ' Measles, rheumatics, whooping-cough, fevers, agues, 
and lumbagers,' said JNIr. Squeers, ' is all philosophy to- 
gether, that 's what it is. The heavenly bodies is phi- 
losophy, and the earthly bodies is philosophy. If there 's 
a screw loose in a heavenly body, that 's philosophy, and 
if there 's a screw loose in a earthly body, that 's philos- 
ophy too ; or it may be that sometimes there 's a little 
metaphysics in it, but that 's not often. Philosophy 's 
the chap for me. If a parent asks a question in the 
classical, commercial, or mathematical line, says I, grave- 
ly. Why, sir, in the first place, are you a philosopher ? — 
No, Mr. Squeers, he says, I ain't. Then, sir, says I, I am 
sorry for you, for I sha' n't be able to explain it. Natu- 
rally the parent goes away and wishes he was a philoso- 
pher, and, equally naturally, thinks I 'm one." 

The remaining scenes of Mr. and Mrs. Squeers are 
portrayed as well as they can be. Tomkins, who, upon 
hearing the missing Smike inquired for by his watch- 
ful master, makes his entrance and his exit in the shrill 
answer, " Please, sir, I think Smike 's run away, sir," is 
quite as much of a little boy as ever lived and talked 
incessantly ; and the school-room melee between Mckleby 
and Squeers is vividly and vigorously related. 

There are invariably three degrees of excellence. In 
"Nicholas Nickleby" Dickens is not his best until the 
appearance of Panny Squeers, 'Tilda Price, and John 



60 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Browdie. Very comical is the interview between Fanny 
Squeers and Nickleby. By means of leger-cU-Jigure 
Dickens portrays Nickleby on one side of his face, and 
the susceptible Fanny on the other, for that simper, lisp, 
and mien certainly belong to Mr. Squeers's offspring. 
Her " thank you " is perfect, and her reply to Nickleby's 
question, " Shall it be a hard or soft nib ? " — referring 
to the pen wliich is her excuse for appearing before 
the young master of arts, — "As soft as possible, if you 
'please','' deserves to be perpetuated Ijy a John Leech ; 
although, now I think of it, could only one moment of 
this dialogue be made enduring, I should fasten my af- 
fections upon that wherein, walking away with the pen, 
she exclaims, in a Squeersian ecstasy, " I never saia such 
legs in the ivhole course of my life ! " — (" the general run 
of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked.") 

But there are more plums in tlie memoi-able tea-party. 
Fanny's introduction of Nickleby to ]\Iatilda Price — 
"Mr. Nickleby, 'Tilda; 'Tilda, I\Ir. Nickleby"— is a fit- 
ting overture to one of the cleverest of 2'c/i;!c comedies. 
John Browdie, with his rich Yorkshire dialect and volu- 
minous laughter, is absolutely equal to an epidemic. He 
breaks out in every direction, and when the interest in- 
creases by the appearance of the green-eyed monster, 
which in Fanny Squeers assumes the spiteful, and in 
the Yorkshireman displays itself in flattening his nose 
with his clenched fist, it increases after the spectator's 
own heart. Then when John Browdie " dangs his boans 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY AT THE YOEKSHIRE SCHOOL. 61 

and "bocldy," and Miss Squeers makes a face at 'Tilda (no 
child, however cultivated in the art, can "make a face" 
superior to Dickens), and the two bosom friends call each 
other names, winding up with that beautiful climax, 
" 'Tilda, artful and designing 'Tilda ! — I would n't have a 
child named 'Tilda, — not to save it from its grave," — • 
tlie Tragic Muse herself would be reprehensible did she 
refrain from smiling, and even laugh outright at John 
Browdie's retort, " as to the matther o' thot, it '11 be time 
eneaf to think aboot neaming of it when it cooms." 
Glorious John Browdie ! there 's not a trace of Dickens 
in him. Yorkshire triumphs over the dress-coat even, 
and the scene closes while we, like Oliver, long for 
"more." How Dickens ne'er o'ersteps the modesty of 
nature is particularly apparent in this speech of Brow- 
die. Few are the actors who would not transcend the 
bounds of propriety, but Dickens is never more a gentle- 
man than in dealing with passages that are capable of 
being vulgarly construed. His humor, though always in 
character, is never tinged with coarseness of manner. 

At the conclusion of this admirable reading, impartial 
criticism declares that, of the eight characters portrayed, 
Fanny Squeers, 'Tilda Price, and John Browdie are unap- 
proachable ; that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers could be equally 
well done by actors born for the purpose ; that Mcholas 
Nickleby might be better done on the stage, but never 
is ; and that Smike is the only character wherein Dickens 
fails. To demand of Dickens that he shall equal the 



62 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

finest Smike of the stage is asking too mucL Dickens 
is human, not superhuman. Let it be. remembered also 
that the word " failure " is used with reservation. Dickens 
has set a very difficult task for himself, and one to which 
nobody else is equal. Compared with his other charac- 
ters, Dickens's Smike is unsuccessful because it is vul- 
nerable. Smike is not poorly .done, but it can be better 
done. Dickens's Smike is earnest, pathetic, and his sigh- 
ing is as truly touching as it is artistically fine. But 
Smike is not pathetic enough, and his monotonous voice 
frequently degenerates into a whine. This voice undoubt- 
edly arises from Dickens's desu*e to give Smike a distinct 
individuality, and to prevent the intonation of one char- 
acter from encroaching upon that of another. Tliis indi- 
viduality he most certainly preserves. There is not a 
trace of the Squeerses, or of Mckleby, or of Browdie in 
it, but the monotonous intonation is unnatural, and there- 
fore unworthy of Dickens, whose best manner is thorough 
naturalness. Dickens could give more variety of tone and 
still keep Smike intact, and had he but this one charac- 
ter to assume, it would undoubtedly be vastly better car- 
ried out. At the same time it must be confessed that 
the finest Smike known thus far could not embody the 
seven remaining dramatis pcrsoncc, whose idiosyncrasies 
Dickens puts on as easily as he would put on old gloves. 
It is this versatility that almost silences criticism ; yet 
loyalty to art demands the noting of spots upon the 
sun. 




o 

Q 
< 

m 
o 

Q 



THE STORY OF LITTLE DOJVIBEY. 63 



THE STOEY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 

" /^HAKLES DICKENS is only a caricaturist." And 
^-^ he wrote the story of " Eichard Doubledick, the 
poor soldier," which, for naturalness and pathos, is un- 
ri\^alled in the English language. " Charles Dickens is 
only a liumorist." And one half of his creations is as 
tragic as the other half is comic. " Charles Dickens is 
only a farce actor." And the tears are stiU fresh that 
fell in listening to " The Story of Little Domhey." Ah, 
well ! whoever escapes being misinterpreted, likewise es- 
capes being head and shoulders above his fellows. Who 
wears a crown at all must wear a crown of thorns. 

Dickens's Eeading of Little Dombey is peculiar; for 
wdiile the tragic element enters largely into several other 
Eeadiugs, still laughter holds the balance of power. 
Every chapter of Little Dombey, on the contrary, is writ- 
ten in a minor key. Here and there scherzos are inter- 
spersed ; but the voice of the " old, old-fashioned child " 
returns like a sad refrain, and the general effect is melan- 
choly. It is the only one of Dickens's Eeadings that con- 
tains a death-bed scene. The Angel of Death hovers over 
" David Copperfield," but we do not see Ham Peggotty 
and Steerforth die. The ocean yields up its victims and 



64 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

lays their bodies upon the shore at our feet. There is 
solemnity without pathos. But the spirit of Little Dom- 
bey takes wing before our eyes, and in its flight touches 
heart-strings that respond with saddest music. There- 
fore " The Story of Little Dombey " is the least popular 
of all Dickens's Headings. He, the comedian, the farce- 
actor, succeeds in making people very miserable ; and 
people dishke to be made miserable. They prefer to 
laugh. They object to any draft upon their sympathies. 
Put tragedy before them in such guise as to excite no 
emotion, and they enjoy it. Make them feel it, and it 
ceases to be an amusement. "I don't like Eistori's 
' Marie Antoinette,' " said an unknown voice, behind me, 
not long ago. " I don't call that acting ; it is real. If 
she did n't make me cry, I 'd enjoy it. I tell you, that 's 
not what I call art." In the most popular of all diction- 
aries art is defined thus: "Art, n., The reverse of na- 
ture." 

We are first ushered into the presence of "rich Mr. 
Dombey," who " sat in the corner of his wife's darkened 
bedchamber, in the great arm-chair by the bedside," and 
of "rich Mr. Dombey's son," who " lay tucked up warm in 
a little basket, carefully placed on a low settee in front of 
the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analo- 
gous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him 
brown while he was very new." In the reading of one 
sentence Dickens places before us both father and son. 
" Mr. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and rather stern 



THE STOKY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 65 

and pompous. Mr. Dombey's son was very bald, and very 
red, and rather crushed and spotty in his general effect, — 
as yet." AVith Dickens, one or two adjectives answer the 
purpose of a whole paint-box. 

" ' He will be christened Paul, of course. His father's 
name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grandfather's. I wish his 
grandfather were alive this day.' And again he said, 
' Dombey and Son.' " After this Mr. Dombey, Sr., takes 
positive form and substance. Mr. Micawber is pompous. 
Dr. Blimber is pompous ; but the pomposity of this rich 
gentleman, in a blue coat and bright buttons, is as unlike 
other styles of pomposity as Anno Domini is unlike Autw 
Domlei. Mr. Dombey is . so pleased with himself — and 
his firm — that he is absolutely genial — for him ; so 
much so as to acknowledge the presence of that other 
child, six years old, saying, " Florence, you may go and 
look at your pretty brother, if you like. — Dont touch 
Mm ! " " How is it possible," asks Scudo, " to trans- 
mit to posterity, through tlie medium of cold language, 
an inflection of voice, a look, a gesture, a pause, those 
thousand shades of art and beauty that characterize 
the style of a great virtuoso?" I think of this, and 
nothing but this, when Dickens pauses and sums up 
" rich ]\Ir. Dombey and Son " in a motion of the hands 
and that one short command, " Dont touch him ! " Did he 
crush Florence beneath his heel, her insignificance could 
not be made more apparent. 

She is not a Dombey. IMrs. Chick is, and Vvdien the 



66 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

sister of her brother flings her arms about that brother s 
nack, exclaiming, " My dear Paul ! This last child is quite 
a Dombey ! He 's such a perfect Dombey ! " Dickens as- 
sumes the air of that lady whose immortal receipt will be 
incorporated in the world's proverbial philosophy as the 
grand moral panacea. How like a Dombey she is, in her 
exhortation there in the chamber of death ; how she ad- 
vises Fanny " to make an effort " ; how she places her ear 
close to the mother's face in expectation of a reply ; how 
she touches her, and almost shakes her, in order that Mrs. 
Dombey may be roused " to make an effort " ! It is very 
real, this monologue of Mrs. Chick's, but no more real 
than Florence's appealing cry, " ]\Iamma ! dear mamma ! 
dear mamma ! " — no more real than the silence of tliat 
departing spirit, — no better than the closing of this scene. 
" The doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of -the 
child aside from the face and mouth of the mother. And 
thus, clinging fast to the frail spar witliin her arms, the 
mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that 
rolls round all the world." The reading is wortliy of the 
writing. 

In scene second the " odd child " is no longer " crushed 
and spotty in general effect," but sits in a little chair 
beside his father and talks, and it seems to me that 
Dickens is particularly happy — if such an adjective 
can be applied to so unhappy a subject — in the voice 
of Little Dombey. It is almost the same voice em- 
ployed by him in Smike ; but what is objectionable in 



THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 67 

the latter appears to be eminently characteristic of the 
former. Smite is a youth of nineteen, and may possess 
variety of intonation ; whereas a treble monotone har- 
monizes with Paul's years. Dickens's management of 
this voice, too, completely expresses physical exhaustion 
and premature decay ; it is far removed from anything 
groion up or manly, and, having once heard his Little 
Dombey, it is difficult to conceive how else the child 
could be successfully treated. The dialogue between 
Dombey and Son about money is a wonderful contrast of 
two natures, considering that the two natures are deline- 
ated by one man, and when Paul silences his father by 
saying, "As you are so rich, if money can do anything, 
and is n't cruel, I wonder it did n't save me my mamma. 
It can't make me strong and quite well either. I am so 
tired -sometimes, and my bones ache so, that I don't know 
what to do," — a feeling of utter weariness possesses the 
attentive listener. 

Dickens is also very effective in his description of 
:Mrs. Pipchin, the great manager of children, "whose 
husband had broken his heart in pumping water out of 
some Peruvian mines." — " Well, a very respectable way 
of doing it," mused Mr. Dombey, to whose voice Dickens 
accords a hard metallic ring. Miss Pankey is never quite 
so much of "a mild, little blue-eyed morsel" as when 
Dickens relates how " she was led in from captivity by 
the ogress herself, and instructed that nobody ivJio sniffed 
before visitors ever ivent to heaven," and Master Either- 



68 TEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

stone's perennial agony at being borne away "to have 
something else done to him with salt-water, from which 
he always returned very blue and dejected," is not fully 
realized until the author's reading throws light upon it. 
But the comedy does not get fully under way until the 
interview between Little Dombey and the exemplary 
Pipchin, where the old-fashioned child so " fixes " his 
teacher that she finally says, — 

" Xever you mind, sir. Eemember the story of the 
little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for ask- 
ing questions." 

" If the bull was mad, how did he know that the boy 
had asked questions ? iSTobody can go and whisper secrets 
to a mad bull. I don't believe that story." 

" You don't beHeve it, sir ? " 

" Xo." 

" Not if it should happen to have been a tcunc bull, you 
little infidel ? " 

The weird, reasoning boy is seen one moment, the mot- 
tled-faced, hook-nosed,' hard gray-eyed Pipchin next, and 
Little Paul's earnestness is inexpressibly droll. 

Although Dickens never waits for his " points " to 
" tell," — insisting that they shall take effect as they fly 
or pass unrecognized, — he neglects no word that can be 
dressed up to make an appearance. Little Paul on the 
sea-shore dislikes the company of his nurse., and is well 
pleased when she strolls away to "pick up shells and 



THE- STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 69 

acquaintances!' It never occurred to me that tliere was 
a world of meaning in this final word, and yet, after 
Dickens pronounces it, its significance dawns upon me, 
and I behold that nurse in all manner of situations, with 
all manner of people. 

Solenmly funny with Mrs. Pipchin, Paul is solemnly 
grave with Florence. 

" If you were in India, Floy, I should — what is it 
that mamma did ? I foro'et." 

" Love me ? " 

" No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy ? Wliat is it ? 
— Died. If you were in India, I should die, Floy." 

How the tired head grows more and more tired in the 
endeavor to remember what mamma did ! But there is 
hope in the voice and eagerness in the look when Paul 
points to the horizon and asks what it is that the sea 
keeps on saying. 

" Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he 
would break off, to try to understand what it was that 
the waves were always saying ; and would rise up in his 
couch to look towards that invisible region, — far aivay." 

Dickens is not a reader as others are readers. He is 
something better. There is a death-knell in those con- 
cluding words, "far away'.' 

Dropping the minor and taking up a major key, Dick- 
ens introduces us to Dr. Blimber's hot-house for the 
blowing of young gentlemen. He dives into the iutel- 



70 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS, 

lectual garden and brings forth plums, upon wliich we 
feast as if they were a fruit just discovered and eaten for 
the first time. When Dickens produces the plum, Mrs. 
Blimber, it cannot be truthfully said that the lady " who 
was not learned herself, but pretended to be, and that did 
quite as well," is good enough to eat ; but this particu- 
lar plum is most certainly good enough to stuff and 
put under a glass case. She makes but one remark: 
" that if she could have known Cicero " (going from the 
bottom to the top of a vocal staircase on the name of 
this distinguished Eonian gentleman), " she thought she 
could have died contented." Given a bone, the natu- 
rahst can draw the skeleton. Given Mrs. Blimber, as 
she vocally goes up stairs with Cicero, and the mother of 
Miss Blimber lives as long as we live. 

As for Dr. Blimber, he may at any moment burst with 
importance. " ' And how do you do, sir ? ' he said to Mr. 
Dombey, ' and how is my little friend ? ' " When the 
doctor left off, the great clock in the hall seemed (to 
Paul, at least) to take him up, and to go on saying, 
over and over again, " How, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? — 
how, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? " Dickens defies the great 
clock by ticldng himself 

Ah, but Toots, Young Toots, otherwise " P. Toots, Es- 
quire, Brighton, Sussex ! " You may have loved him 
from childhood, you may have seen him without his 
boots, and sympathized with him in his unrequited af- 
fection, but until you have made Toots's acquaintance 



THE STOEY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. 71 

tlirougli the medium of Dickens, you have no idea how- 
he looks or how he talks. When Toots puts his thumb 
in his mouth, looks sheepish, and roars forth, " How are 
you ? " I feel as the man in the play must feel when, for 
the first time, he recognizes his long-lost brother with 
the strawberry-mark on his left arm. Dickens's Toots 
bears the unmistakable strawberry-mark. His sheepish- 
ness is by no means that of a country bumpkin. Toots 
is a gentleman. It is such sheepishness as only can 
accompany a voice that appears to proceed from some 
cavern ingeniously concealed in Toots' s boots. 

Dramatic genius may soar higher than Dickens soars 
in Toots, but when this heavily good-natured young 
gentleman says, " Sit down, Dombey " ; when, after in- 
specting Dombey, he asks, " Who 's your tailor ? " when, 
turning the crank of his organ with one tune, he stares 
and puts the question, " I say, — it 's not of the slightest 
consequence, you know, but I should wish to mention it, 
— how are you, you know ? " wdien he dashes into Paul's 
bedroom and blurts forth, " I say — Dombey — what do 
you think about ? " — "0, I tliink about a great many 
things." — " Do you, though ? — I don't myself " ; when Mr. 
Toots finishes his academic career, puts on a ring, and calls 
his former /iccifZ-gardener, " Blimher !" when at the Blimber 
party his brain and fingers become chaotic in buttoning 
and unbuttoning the bottom button of his waistcoat, and 
turning his wristbands up and down ; when finally, upon 



72 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 

being asked by ]Mr. Baps, the dancing-master, what is to 
be done with " your raw materials," he replies, " Cook 
^em" — I fear that I am tempted to throw off my allegiance 
to the Tragic Muse and acknowledge that comedy is, 
after all, the greatest blessing in life. The oftener Toots 
says, " How are you ? " the better you like this profound 
question. It improves upon acquaintance, and you would 
very gladly take it three times a day all the year round — 
before eating. I hope, therefore,. I may be pardoned if I 
venture to declare that the tout ensemUe is perfect. 

Who can ever forget little Briggs that has seen Dickens 
mournfully rub his face, — I mean Briggs's face, — mut- 
tering that " his head ached ready to split, and that he 
should wish himself dead if it was n't for his mother and 
a blackbird he had at home " ? That blackbird brings out 
the boy-nature as nothing else can. When Miss Blimber 
tells Dombey that she is " going out for a con -sti-tu-tion- 
al," she is just as comical as such a " dry, crisp, sandy 
Ghoul " can be, — and more so. As Miss Blimber pro- 
nounces " con-sti-tu-tion-al " it sounds like a vocal illustra- 
tion of a Virginia fence. It is here, there, and everywhere. 
Miss Blimber peppers Dombey with it ; and although 
nobody in the flesh ever took such liberties with a 
respectable word of five syllables, yet the effect of this 
" con-sti-tu-tion-al " is sufficiently exhilarating to. disarm 
the sturdiest Pre-Eaphaelite. " Se non e vero, e hen tro- 
vato." Mr. Feeder, B. A., also comes out beautifully in 
the recitation of that remarkable poetry, — 



THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY. . 73 

"Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
I ne'er could injure you ! " 

But the old refrain of the old, old-fashioned child 
breaks in upon the merriment, and while laughter still 
rings through the air we stand upon the verge of a 
young grave. The little, thoughtful face, the tired, 
treble voice, come back and ask, " ' What do you think I 
mean to do when I grow up, Mrs. Pipchin ?...,-! mean 
to put my money all together in one bank, — never try to 
get any more, — go away into the country with my darling 
Florence, — have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and 

live there with her all my life That 's what I mean 

to do when I ' — he stopped and pondered for a moment, 
— 'if I grow up.' " Dombey, Sr., Dombey, 3r., if one of 
your type be within sound of that piteous voice, his heart 
will soften, and his godless pride fail him ! 

To describe a death-bed scene, which is its own best 
description, is to attempt to paint the lily. Dickens 
breathes a vital spark into the text, and fills out what 
was previously an outline. There stands the stern father 
who bends down to the pillowed head, listening as the 
child murmurs, " Don't be so sorry for me ! Indeed, I am 
quite happy ! " — There is the loving nurse who holds the 
wasted hand in hers and puts it to her lips and breast. — 
There are brother and sister locked in each other's arms. — 
There is the final moment when, folding his hands prayer- 
fully behind his sister's neck, the dying boy exclaims, 
" Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! 



74 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S HEADINGS. 

But tell them that the picfure on the stairs at school is. 
not divine enough. The light about the head is shining 
as I go !" 



o^ 



1 



"The golden ripple on the wall came back again, andl 
nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion ! 
The fashion that came in with our first garments, andl 
will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and I 
the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, 
old fashion, — Death ! " ,4 

" 0, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion 
yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young 
children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift 
river bears us to the ocean ! " 

Why is it that through glistening tears we see the 
imaginary pillow illuminated ? Why do we know that 
mothers who have lost young children listen with bowed 
heads and yet with overflowing gratitude ? Because the 
reader leads us through the dark valley of the shadow 
of Death into the bright gladness of Life Eternal. 

Ten characters ! and Dickens fills them all without 
fear and without reproach ! 




DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 



DOCTOE MAEIGOLD. 75 



VI. 

DOCTOR MAEIGOLD. 

/~\r all Dickens's Eeadings, this of " Doctor Marigold" 
^-^ is, from a literary point of view, the most complete. 
It is the most complete, because, with the exception of 
a few paragraphs here and there, it embraces the entire 
story as originally written. " Doctor Marigold's Prescrip- 
tion " is given and taken without any perceptible diminu- 
tion of the original dose. What a happy, healthy world 
this would be if all prescriptions were equally beneficial 
in their results ! 

Who that has grown heart-sick at the hollowness and 
conventionality of" society " wonders why Dickens selects 
his heroes and heroines from humble life ? No author 
has done so much to raise the level of human nature by 
simply laying bare the generous impulses of the lowly. 
The obscurer the profession, the more tenderly Dickens 
treats its followers ; carrying out the scriptural prophecy 
of the first being last, and the last first. 

In rescuing the Cheap Jack from the inevitable ob- 
livion entailed by the expanding network of railroads, 
Dickens has laid a beautiful offering upon a neglected 
altar ; and in himseK assuming the character of " Doctor 
Marigold," he has made at least one Cheap Jack known 



( 



76 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENs's READINGS. 

to thousands who otherwise would have passed him by 
on the other side, failing to recognize an innate nobility 
worthy of the highest station. 

Less difficult of portrayal than any other Eeading, — 
changes of character being fewer, — " Doctor Marigold " 
is nevertheless more entirely sympathetic, for, to use 
one of the Doctor's own expressions, liis simple, touching 
story takes hold of you and " rolls upon you " at the 
beginning and continues to roll on to the end. The 
moment that Dickens stands before his desk, which on 
this occasion is transformed into the footboard of a Cheap 
Jack Cart, he makes you feel that Doctor Marigold is a 
man to be loved. How is it possible, then, being en rap- 
port with his second self, not to love him ? 

To all intents and purposes Dickens appears in a 
sleeved-waistcoat, " the strings of which is always gone 
behind " ; and those who may boast of their eyes as " a pair 
o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of 
hextra power," can very distinctly perceive an old white 
hat reposing peacefully upon Dickens's head. | 

Perhaps Dickens does not give as much color and effect 
as might be given to the parallel dra^vn between Cheap 
Jacks and Dear Jacks, — as fine a satire on political 
hawkers as ever was written, — but the moment Doctor 
Marigold arrives at the Ipswich market-place and notices 
his wife that is to be " appreciating him wery highly," 
the admirable portraiture begins. 

Doctor Marigold's description of his wife is inimitable. 



& 



DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 77 

"A man can't write his eye, nor yet can a man write his 
voice, nor the rate of his talk, nor the quickness of his 
action, nor his general spicy way," remarks the original 
Doctor Marigold, so it is useless to make the attempt ; 
but those who have not heard and never can hear it will 
go down to their graves in complete ignorance of what a 
" temper in a cart " means. " Thirteen years of temper 
in a palace would try -the worst of you ; hut thirteen years 
of temper in a cart would try the best of you. You are 
kept so very close to it, — in a cart, — you see. There 's 
thousands of couples, among you, getting on like sweet- 
ile upon a whetstone, in houses five and six pairs of 
stairs high, that would go to the Divorce Court, — in a 
cart. Whether the jolting makes it worse, I don't under- 
take to decide ; but in a cart it does come home to you and 
stick to you. Wiolence — in a cart — is so wiolent, and 
aggrawation — in a cart — is so aggrawatin'." No one 
but Dickens would have dreame,d of this conceit. No 
one but Dickens can endow the doleful confession with 
such unconscious humor. There never was so much good 
humor in so much bad humor. 

And what an important creature Doctor Marigold's dog 
becomes just from one or two references to his extraor- 
dinary sagacity ! " My dog knew as well when she 
was on the turn as I did. Before she broke out, he 
would give a hoiol — and bolt." (The tone of the " howl" 
and action of the " bolt " are unutterably expressive.) 
" How he knew it, was a mystery to me ; but the sure 



78 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 

and certain knowledge of it would wake him out of his 
soundest sleep, and he would give a liowl, — and bolt. 
At such times I wished I was him." As the dog bolts I 
think I recognize the breed, but, not being quite certain 
on this point, I shall not commit myself. 



" The worst of it was," continues Doctor Marigold, " we 
had a daughter born to us, and I love children with all 
my heart." When the good Doctor clasps his hands and 
presses them to his breast, as if he were embracing that 
pretty daughter with the dark curling liair, you feel as if 
he really did love children. Moreover, you feel morally 
certain that Dickens loves children too. Does he not put 
a child into liis books whenever an opportunity offers ? 
And does he not make opportunities when they refuse to 
offer themselves ? Think of Little Nell, the Marchioness, 
Paul and Florence Dombey, Oliver Twist, Little Dick, 
Tiny Tim, and the many outlines of little folks that are 
as good and better than most people's real children. 
Then he has written " A Child's History of England," 
and I am quite sure that he did not undertake it because 
children's books "pay." Of course Doctor Marigold 
loves children. Most expressive of tenderness is the 
way in which he holds a book to his breast when he is 
supposed to be selling goods with the suffering little 
Sophy clinging around his neck. The curly head is 
surely there, and the transition from the Cheap Jack 
wit, which Marigold hurls at his gaping audience, to the 



DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 79 

caresses and questionings of the father are as artistic 
as they are natural. "When, however, little Sophy dies 
without warning in Marigold's arms, and he staggers 
back into the cart, exclaiming to his wife, " Quick ! Shut 
the door ! Don't let those laughing peoiDle see ! . . . . 
woman, woman, you '11 never catch my little Sophy by 
her hair again, for she 's dead and has flown away from 
you ! " the father's expression of grief is too loud for the 
situation. Marigold's endeavor is to keep the crowd in 
ignorance of his sorrows ; therefore, however terrible his 
agony, he must surely muffle the cry of his heart. Did 
Doctor Marigold shout as Dickens does, he would alarm 
the entire neighborhood. Therefore, in spite of his ear- 
nestness at this particular moment, Dickens may be 
criticised on the score of exaggeration. The same words, 
delivered in an undertone, would be equally intense, and 
much more natural. 

All liberally educated persons have seen at least one 
giant, and some of us have speculated with melancholy 
interest upon the private lives of giants in general ; but 
none of us knew what any giant in particular went 
through until Doctor Marigold became acquainted with 
" Einaldo di Velasco, otherwise Pickleson," who, when on 
view, figured at length " as a hancient Eoman." " He had 
a little head, and less in it ; he had weak eyes and weak 
knees ; and altogether you could n't look at him without 
feeling that therR vms greatly too much of him, loth for his 



80 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S HEADINGS, 

jints and his mind" Add Dickens's manner to Dickens's 
matter, and what wonder that our feelings are too much 
for us, and find vent in laughter over the "hancient 
Eoman's " extremities ? This " giant, otherwise Pickleson," 
confides to Doctor Marigold the sad story of Mim's deaf 
and dumb step-daughter, whereupon the Doctor remarks, 
"He was such a wery languid young man that I don't 
know how long it did n't take him to get this story out ; 
hut it passed through his defective circidation to his top 
extremity in course of time." Well, I don't know how 
Dickens does it, and I almost believe he does not know 
himself, — the inspiration of the divine afflatus descends 
upon him, — but the complete vacuity of his face as he 
pronoimces the word " loery" and the languor which accom- 
panies his delivery of this sentence, absolutely make you 
as limp in joints and mind as Einaldo di Velasco himself 
You begin to feel attenuated, and are only saved from 
long-drawn agony by Doctor Marigold's presentation to 
the giant of a sixpence, " and he laid it out in two three- 
penn'orths of gin-and-water, which so brisked him up 
that he sang the Favorite Comic of SJiivcry Shakey, aint 
it cold ? — a popular effect which his master had tried 
every other means to get out of him, as a hancient Ro- 
man, wholly in vain." The ludicrousness of " a hancient 
Eoman " singing the " Favorite Comic of Shivery Shakey " 
is brought out so cleverly by Dickens as to cause you to 
become enamored of the Queen's English, convinced that 
no other language, living or dead, can express such humor . 
as this. 



DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 81 

Then Dickens goes to work — no, lie never seems to 
work, and that 's the beauty of his Headings ; everything 
comes without any apparent effort — and makes a char- 
acter out of two remarks. Nobody can forget Mim, the 
" wery hoarse man," the giant's master, after his declara- 
tion, in a bronchitis-ial voice, — sounding as if it had been 
rasped with a blunted file aU the way down, — that he will 
exchange his deaf and dumb step-daughter for a "pair 
of braces " ; and nobody can forget the tender humor of 
Doctor Marigold in his narration of how he taught his sec- 
ond Sophy her alphabet ; nor the Doctor's account of his 
loneliness when Sophy is sent to school. At last the two 
years pass by, and Doctor Marigold goes to fetch Sophy. 
" The new cart was finished, — yellow outside, relieved with 
vjcrmilion, and brass fittings." Now the words, " relieved 
with wermilion," as words, are not funny ; and yet when 
Dickens is " relieved with wermilion " his face looks such 
unutterable things that even the most stoical fancies, as 
did Sophy herself once, that the Doctor is the c-a-r-t. 
But it is only a fancy. Dickens is the living, loving Doc- 
tor Marigold, when he starts at sight of Sophy, who has 
grown up to be a woman ; when he dares not go to her, 
but rubs his hands together, and, looking down, says, 
timidly, " I feel that I am but a rough chap in a sleeved- 
waistcoat " ; when he at last takes courage to give her 
the old sign, and Sophy clasps him round the neck. 
■ " I don't know what a fool I did n't make of myself," 
says the Doctor, "until we all three settled down into 

4* F 



82 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKEXS'S READINGS. 

talking without sound, as if there was a something soft 
and pleasant spread over the whole world for us." 

That is it. Dickens has spread something soft and 
pleasant over the whole world for us. 

Having acquired an affection for " Einaldo di Velasco, 
otherwise Pickleson " (" whose mother let him out and 
spent the money "), it is with delight that we at last hear 
him speak. " ' Doctor Marigold/ — I give his words with- 
out a hope of conveying their feebleness, — ' who is the 
strange young man that hangs about your cart ? ' ' The 
strange young man ? ' I gives him back, thinking he meant 
Sophy, and his languid circulation had dropped a syllable, 
' Doctor,' he returns, with a pathos calculated to draw a 
tear from even a manly eye, ' I am weak, but not so 
weak yet as that I don't know my words. I repeat them. 
Doctor. The strange — young — man ! ' " 

"Bottom" once saw a voice. If everybody could be 
" Bottom " and see the giant's voice, everybody might go 
about with his own theatre in his mind's eye. Dickens 
outdoes himself. The contrast between the giant's pur- 
ple face, swelling with effort, and the trickle of sound 
squeezed out at the risk of breaking every bloodvessel 
in Pickleson's head, is absolute perfection. A moun- 
tain never brought forth a smaller mouse, nor one that 
was so much worth the trouble. 

What can be said of the remainder of Doctor Mari- 
gold's story, saving tliat it is charmingly narrated? 
"When the unselfish Doctor puts Sophy's hand in that 



DOCTOR MARIGOLD. 83 

of her young husband, saying, "Doctor Marigold's last 
prescription, to be taken for life," — it seems very life- 
like; when Sophy writes from China, "Dearest father, 
not a week ago I had a darling little daughter, but I 
am so well that they let me write these words to you. 
Dearest and best father, I hope my child may not be deaf 
and dumb, but I do not yet know," — Sophy herself 
could hardly read the letter with more feeling ; when 
the Doctor " knocks up " his Christmas-eve dinner, and 
declares that such a beefsteak pudding as he made "is 
enough to put a man in good-humor with everything 
except the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat," — even 
the occupant of a boarding-house inclines to the belief 
that he too has had a sufficiently good dinner to be at 
variance with the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat ; 
and when the Doctor is startled out of his after-dinner 
nap by the real tread of a real child, who peeps in at the 
door of the cart, exclaiming, " Grandfather ! " and the 
grandfather cries out, " my God ! she can speak ! " and 
when Sophy, and her husband, and their child, and the 
Doctor are " shaking themselves together, and the happy 
yet pitying tears fall rolling down the Doctor's face," — 
those tears steal into our eyes as well ; and when Dickens 
hurries away, there seems to be more love and unselfish- 
ness in the world than before we took Doctor Marigold's 
prescription. 

" If that fellar has n't a heart," muttered a broad- 
shouldered, fine-looking countryman who sat behind me 



84 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

at a reading of Doctor Marigold, and who emphasized his 
words by thumping a soft felt hat, — "if that fellar hasn't 
a heart, may I be everlastingly skewered ! He 's made 
me make a fool of myself, and I swiney ! I wish Sal was 
here ! " 



BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE miif. 85 



VIL 

BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TEEE INK 

rr^HERE are some things that, once possessed, become 
-■- so inalienably portions of ourselves as to render it 
a marvel how any one ever lived without them. Rubber 
boots for women, horse-cars, and watches are among them. 
What rubber boots, horse-cars, and watches are to the 
outer man and woman, certain works of art are to the in- 
ner man and woman. The light of the world would grow 
dim to many were certain bits of music, of canvas, of 
sculpture, and of architecture annihilated. This feeling 
is especially excited by particular books. Some books Ave 
approach on state occasions with much dignity and cere- 
mony, knowing it to be highly literary and respectable 
to claim their acquaintance. "We bind them in calf and 
give them the place of honor on our library shelves, 
where we permit them to remayi undisturbed the greater 
part of the year. There are other books that we love 
just as we love intimate friends. "VVe care not how they 
look, whether they are well or ill dressed, and in all prob- 
ability we never ask them into the library. But we do 
ask them into our private room, and insist upon their 
remaining, that we may enjoy their companionship at all 
times and seasons. These are the human books. They 



86 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

are not too good to speak to us in a language that we all 
understand, and confess to a sympathy with the frailty 
of our common nature. Such are the books of Charles 
Dickens. Occasionally we do permit his two-volume 
novels to go down stairs, and be imposing ; but when it 
comes to his shorter stories, particularly those inspired by 
the approach of Christmas, we oblige them to remain en 
deshabille up stairs, that we may be talked to whenever 
we are in a receptive mood. 

Unique, among these Christmas Stories, is " The Holly- 
Tree." That cold, heartless monster, the snow, never did 
a better deed than when it snowed up the bashful man, 
" Charley," at the Yorkshire wayside inn, in consequence 
of which the bashful man " began to associate the Christ- 
mas time of year with human interest, and with some in- 
quiry into, and some care for, the lives of those by whom 
he found himself surrounded." The snow, I repeat, never 
did a better deed, for otherwise, by the bashful man's own 
confession, we never should have been made the happier 
by his " Christmas Carols," and Boots never would have 
related the adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, 
Junior. So for once the snow thawed when it was 
coldest. 

"But Boots's story is utterly impossible." "Why, so 
much the better ! Are not some of the most delightful 
stories in the world as removed from fact as fancy can 
make them ? Was not fancy made for this purpose ? Are 
we always to sit on a Pre-Eaphaelite stump and contem- 










< 



BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TKEE INI^. 87 

plate a Pre-Eaphaelite cabbage ? Do any of us believe 
in the possibility of " The Tempest," or of " Midsummer 
Night's Dream," and yet could we live as comfortably 
without them ? If no one ever dreamed, where would be 
the consolation of waking hours ? Fancy is the oil that 
keeps Reality's wheels in motion. Mr. and Mrs. Harry 
Walmers, Junior, never thought of running away to Gretna 
Green. Of course not ; but the charmingly quaint story 
is as pure and fresh as mountain dew. I would not 
lose the recollection of that little creature in the sky- 
blue mantle tucked under the arm of her young lover, 
who walks off " much bolder than Brass " (with a capital 
B), for a wilderness of disagreeable facts. Truth is not 
necessarily a virtue. 

There are three branches on the original " Holly-Tree." 
Leaving untouched the first and third branches, which 
are better on the tree than off it, Dickens cuts down the 
second and brings it into the lecture-room that we may 
enjoy its refreshing verdure. In Dickens's rendering of 
The Boots, criticism does not know " where to have 
him." Search as you may for a weak point, the search is 
in vain ; and after a first hearing you abandon yourself to 
unalloyed pleasure. Boots stands before you telling his 
story in Ids own naive way. 

And Boots is a captivating fellow. I am not sur- 
prised that Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, were 
excessively fond of him, and decided to give him two 
thousand guineas a year as head-gardener, — when the 



88 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF t)ICKENS'S HEADINGS. 

time should come for them to have a house in a forest, 
keep bees and a cow, and live entirely on milk and honey. 
Such a man deserves such a salary, particularly if con- 
demned to such a diet. You cannot avoid liking Boots 
when you read him ; but when you see and hear him, 
the relationship is of a tenderer nature. For Boots is a 
diamond in the rough. He is distantly related to Sam 
Weller. He is a Sam Weller whose natural keenness has 
received no polish from city life, and whose humor has 
been softened by sentiment and a contemplation of nature 
as seen in garden-bulbs. I am not quite sure, — it is 
very difficult to make up one's mind on such an important 
point, — but I think that if I were in affliction, or even 
comfortably unhappy, I should prefer the services of Boots 
to those of Sam Weller. Prosperity, and the prejudice 
Tony Weller entertained against poetry, rob Sam of the 
one attribute needed to make him an angel. This attri- 
bute Boots possesses. He is a poet in disguise. This 
is proved by his delicate appreciation of the loves of 
Mr. and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior. " On tlie whole, 
sir, the contemplation o' them two babbies had a ten- 
dency to make me feel as if I was in love myself, — 

only I did n't exactly know who with I don't 

know, sir, — perhaps you do, — why it made a man fit to 
make a fool of himself, to see them two pretty babbies 
a-lying there in the clear, still, sunny day, not dreaming 
half so hard when they was asleep as they done when 
they was awake. But Lord ! ivhen you come to think of 



BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TEEE INN. 89 

yourself, you know, and what a game you have been up to 
ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor 
sort of a chap you are, arter all, that 's ivhere it is ! Dent 
you see, sir ? " " Here 's wisdom for you ; chunks of it ! " 
Boots's sum-total of life is as philosophical as his con- 
templation of youthful innocence is poetical. 

"What was the curious-es-est thing Boots had seen? 
Well, he did n't know. He could n't momently guess 
what was the curious-es-est thing he had seen, — unless 
it was a Unicorn, — and he see him once in spirits at a 
fair." However clever we may be in the specialty for 
which we were naturally designed, not one of us but 
desires to be considered as born for something else, and 
we are never so complacent as when attempting that un- 
attainable something. Even Boots betrays this amiable 
weakness. He approaches the word "curious-es-est," 
with a look of admiration, clings to every syllable with 
'affection, and only lets go his hold because conversation 
would otherwise come to a dead lock. Therefore Boots 
goes on, and the richness, the flavor, the bouquet of his 
tone is as appetizing as transfigured bitters. When 
Master Harry says, " Cobbs, how should you spell Norah 
if you was asked ? " and when Cobbs gives him "" his 
individual views, sir, respectin' the spelling o' that 
name," one understands what is meant by the rar§ word 
"unction." The dialogue between Master Harry and 
Cobbs respecting Norah, is to the manner born, and child- 
hood never was more deliciously illustrated than in the 



90 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 

air and expression assumed by Master Harry when, stop- 
ping at " The Holly-Tree Inn " en route for Gretna Green, 
he gives his orde'rs to Cobbs. "We should like some 
cakes after dinner, and two apples — and jam ! " If you 
have ever been a child and loved jam to distraction, — 
you never were a child unless you did love jam to dis- 
traction, — and remember how you gazed at it in her- 
metically sealed glass jars, with eyes as big as saucers, — 
wishing your eyes were saucers full of jam, — you know 
ho^v• Dickens treats this cabalistic word. It is your youth- 
ful asj)iration, your eyes, your hermetically sealed jars 
reduced to sound. While Cobbs describes Master Harry 
sitting " behind his breakfast cup a-tearing away at the 
jelly, as if he had been his own father," you understand 
just how he is tearing. 

" The way in which the women of that house," says 
Cobbs, "without exception, — every one of them, mar- 
ried and single, — took to that boy when they heard the 
story, is saperizing." (Cobbs is almost as devoted in his 
attentions to this word as to his former verbal Dulcinea.) 
" It was as much as could be done to keep 'em from 
dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed 
up all sorts of places, at the risk of their lives, to look at 
him through a pane of glass, — and they was seven deep at 
the key-hole." By means of this key-hole, Cobbs unlocks 
the door to such sense of humor as has not been ex- 
hausted by the previous drain upon it. 

Great as Master Harry is at the moment of his calling 



BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TKEE INN. 91 

for "jam" I think he is equally so when, upon heing 
asked whether Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, is fatigued, 
he replies, " Yes, she is tired, Cobbs ; but she is not used 
to be away from home, and she has been in low spirits 
again. Cobbs, do you think you could bring a baked 
apple, please ? Norah 's rather partial to baked apples, 
and I think one would rouse her." A father of a large 
family — John Eogers, for example — could not speak, 
with more confidence, or with greater knowledge of 
human nature. 

But the pretty story, perfect as it is, will come to an 
end, and when — Master Harry stooping down to kiss 
Norah for the last time — one of the many chamber- 
maids, peeping through the door, shrilly cries out, " It 's 
a shame to part 'cm ! " that chambermaid springs from 
Dickens's head as IVIinerva sprang from the head of Jove, 
and stands armed and equipped for the fray. 

Who, after listening to Cobbs, does not wish with him 
"that there was an impossible place where two such 
babies could make an impossible marriage, and live 
impossibly happy ever after ? " and who does not shudder 
at thought of the era when universal education will have 
made such inroads upon even " The Holly-Tree Inn " as 
to abolish all use of bad grammar, and proclaim Cobbs's 
occupation gone ! See Dickens in his Boots, and you wish 
universal education at the bottom of that well where 
truth is said to lie. 



92 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 



VIII. 

MR BOB SA^VYER'S PAETY. 

" rrr HEPiE 's a destiny in these things, gentlemen, we 
-'- can't help it," said Dickens's Bagman, upon re- 
counting the prowess of his uncle in absorbing the con- 
tents of quart measures. The Bagman was undoubtedly- 
correct in his deduction. There must be a destiny in these 
things and in all things, else Dickens would have gone 
down to his grave before being able to decide upon what 
selections from " The Pickwick Papers " to make for his 
Pteadings. To the mind unillumined by destiny, there 
seems no good reason why " Mr. Bob Sawyer's Party " 
should have been preferred to a thousand and one equally 
good episodes. In reading the book, this particular party 
takes no more hold of our affections than many others. 
Hence it is safe to conclude that there is a destiny in these- 
things, and that Dickens was as much born to read " Mr. 
Bob Sawyer's Party " as he was to create it. After seeing 
him at this party, the hypothesis becomes as self-evident 
as any axiom in Euclid. WHiat has struck you heretofore 
as a diamond no better than its fellows is magically trans- 
formed into a Kohinoor. 

And when I say " magically transformed," I mean it in 
all soberness of criticism. ^\Tio ever thought, in reading 




MR. BOB SAWYER AND MR. BEN ALLEN. 



MR. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 93 

Pickwick, of giving any special attention to Mrs. Eaddle's 
housemaid ? Her appearance and disappearance are al- 
most simultaneous. She is a dirty, slip-shod girl, in 
black cotton stockings. That is all. And what does she 
say ? " Please, Mr. Sawyer, Missis Eaddle wants to speak 
to yau." 

Anything else ? Yes. 

" Does Mr. Sawyer Hve here ? " mildly inquires Mr, 
Pickwick at Mrs. Eaddle's front door. 

" Sawyer ! " slowly echoes the Black Stocldngs, whose 
mental circulation is almost as languid as Einaldo di 
Velasco's physical circulation, " yes. Sawyer ; he lives 
here. Sawyer 's the first floor. It 's the door straight 
afore you, when you gets to the top of the stairs." 

And is this all ? No ; there is one more scene. 

" You can't have no warm water," 
" No warm water ? " exclaims the horrified host, Bob, 
"No," continues Betsey. "Missis Eaddle said you 
warn't to have none." 

" Bring up the water instantly, — instantly ! " 
"No, I can't. Missis Eaddle raked out the kitchen 
fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle." 

Here is the whole of Betsey. From this small side 
bone that any but a consummate artist would throw 
away as having very little meat upon it, Dickens creates 
an incomparably comic character. The moment Betsey 
opens her mouth she is an accomplished fact. A dirtier. 



94 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

more slip-shod, more stolid, more irretrievably stupid girl 
never lived. Dickens's list of her clothes includes noth- 
ing but a pair of black cotton stockings, but when he 
brings her on the stage she not only wears black stockings 
with slippers down at the heel that drop off on the stairs, 
but a short gown, the original color of which is cleverly 
concealed by dirt, and a check apron, one half of which 
is conspicuous by its absence. Her sleeves are rolled up, 
displaying very red arms, and that portion of her scrubby 
hair which is not standing on end is maliciously attempt- 
ing to put out Betsey's eyes. Betsey's legs look like sticks 
of black sealing-wax, as if in mourning for the rest of 
her neglected person, and are finished off at the knees 
with white strings. An owl in the brightest noonday 
sun never was more dazed or more incapable of an idea. 
A voice never expressed more thorough individuality, for 
Betsey has a cold in the head. She could not possibly 
fulfil her mission on earth if she had 7iot a cold in the 
head. It gives a muffled, sepulchral tone to her words 
absolutely necessary to make what she says produce the 
desired effect upon Bob Sawyer and his guests. Betsey, 
however, is not such a fool as to be unaware that some- 
thing must be amiss between Mr. Sawyer and his land- 
lady. Consequently, the ai^ of mystery with which she 
idiotically glares at Mr. Sawyer, or darts her head for- 
ward, — like a turtle from beneath its shell, — or slowly 
shakes that head, is not without solemnity. The amiable" 
landlady, Mrs. Eaddle, is quite as well portrayed; but 



t 



MR. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 93 

something is expected of Mrs. Eaddle, whereas Betsey 
takes you entirely by surprise. If a donkey lisped in 
numbers you could not be more astonished. The former 
merely realizes fond hopes. The scene between Mrs. 
Eaddle, Mr. Sawyer, and Mr. Ben Allen is a farce in 
itself, while Mrs. Eaddle's final expose of Mr. Sawyer's 
delinquencies, as she scolds over the balusters, the rum- 
bling of Mr. Eaddle's voice, proceeding from beneath 
distant bed-clothes, and the lady's parting compliments to 
inoffensive Mr. Pickwick, " Get along with you, you old 
wretch ! Old enough to be his grandfather, you villain ! 
You 're worse than any of 'em," — are rich in humor. 

Mr. Bob Sawyer is not every inch himself, for the 
reason that Mr. Sawyer labors under depressing influences 
throughout the entire evening. He is as much himself 
as he can be, considerincj the condition of his mind and 
pocket, and is really sublime in his impudence, when, 
seeing his guests ordered out of the house by Mrs. Ead- 
dle, he turns to Jack Hopkins with an injured look, and 
informs Jack that it is all his fault, " because he will sing 
chorus, — that he was born chorus-y, lives chorus-y, and 
will die chorus-y." This impudence is rather the more 
delightful for being an interpolation. 

The only time we hear dear Mr. Pickwick's voice is on 
this occasion. He says very little, merely putting a few 
leading questions that keep conversation afloat, yet we 
recognize our old benefactor at once in the countenance 
that " glows with an expression of universal philanthropy," 



96 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 

and in a blandness of speech that cannot belong to any 
one else. Several young gentlemen who attended the 
original party are not present at its repetition, Mr. Gun- 
ter, among others, being absent. His share in the quar- 
rel with Mr. Noddy is necessarily transferred to Jack 
Hopkins, and the quarrel is really so enlivening that you 
long to have it become general ; but at the most promis- 
ing moment Mr. Noddy " allows his feelings to over- 
power him," and Mr. Hopkins prefers Mr. Noddy " to Ids 
own mother" whereupon the combatants shake hands 
with so much effusion as to strangle your blood-thirsty 
aspirations. 

Jack Hopkins is what Bob Sawyer would have been, 
had not Mrs. Eaddle's " malevolence " thrown cold water 
upon his ardent spirits. He is the ideal of all the medi- 
cal students that ever had a talent for lying combined 
with a tendency to black velvet waistcoats, thunder-and- 
lightning buttons, blue striped shirts, and false white col- 
lars. The general inflation of Jack Hopkins's person; 
the professional cast of countenance; the voice which 
ma^ves its escape as best it can between closed teeth, and 
from a mouth apparently full of mush ; the hands that 
are thrust into pantaloon-pockets, as if to be carefully 
preserved for the next surgical operation, — an attitude 
that, when accompanied by an oscillation of the body, as 
in Jack Hopkins's case, always indicates superior wisdom, 
— are sui generis. He represents a type in caricature. 
All Jack's medical stories are good, but all are obscured 



MR. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 97 

by the boy that swallowed a necklace. Even Betsey is 
obliged to divide the honors with this infant phenom- 
enon. It may be doing Dickens great injustice, but it 
really seems as if he were as funny as he can be in this 
absurdest of burlesques. The law of self-preservation 
should prevent him from being any funnier, for, if he has 
no regard for his own feelings, he should consider those 
of others, and remember that people have been tickled to 
death. Peggotty would burst every button, hook-and- 
eye that ever approached her jovial person. Dickens 
makes the story ; the story does not make him. The in- 
flections of his voice are in themselves mirth-provoking, 
the mere pronunciation of the word " necklace " inspiring 
as much laughter as is usually accorded to a low-comedy 
man's best " point." In one short sentence he rushes up 
and down the gamut most originally. Words can give no 
idea of the effect produced ; perhaps a wretched outline 
drawing may. For example : — 

" ChHd 

toys, 

being fond of 

lass, 
cribbed / 

neck 



Md lass, 

neck 



98 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 

lasSy 



neck 



of 



cut string lass ! 



neck 

of 

and bead * 

swallowed 

Those who have heard Dickens will understand this 
illustration, and may perhaps thank me for it. Those 
who have not heard him will not understand it, and will 
not thank me. When, after hearing a noise " like a small 
hail-storm," the father exclaims, — 

%/" 
" DonH ■ my 

do that, 

and the child replies, " I ain't a-doin' nothing," where- 
upon the father rejoins, — 

gai7i ! " 
a 
"Well, do it 

don't 

— fun appears to have reached its perihelion, but when, 
after shaking the boy, the father cries out, — 



"Why, 



ME. BOB sawyer's PARTY. 99 



God bless my soul. 



it's the child! 

in the place!" 

got the croup 

He's 

wrong 

— nothing is left for human nature but to laugh at every 
pore. If the public eye were not upon you, you would 
abandon yourself to an ecstasy of delight. Dreading that 
public eye, you swallow, not a necklace, but a pocket- 
handkerchief, and rather fear spontaneous combustion. 
Indeed, this story puts you in such good-humor that you 
are quite ready to shake hands with your worst enemy, 
quite ready to withdraw your former desire that he might 
write a book, and you go home from "Bob Sawyer's 
Party," wishing that aU parties were equally select and 
equally entertaining. 



100. TEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 



IX. 

THE TEIAL FEOM PICKWICK. 

npHEEE have been many trials for breach of promise 
-*- of marriage, but none ever shook the world to its 
centre as that of " Bardell versus Pickwick " has shaken it. 
Building his reputation on a Pickwickian foundation, the 
corner-stone of which is this same renowned Trial, it was 
meet that Dickens should again bring this interesting 
case into court to be sat upon by an impartial jury 
of a New World. 

Dickens's manner of conducting The Trial is irreproach- 
able, saving in one respect.' In other Headings he has 
displayed great art and sagacity in the selections made 
from his novels, and in the trimming down of these selec- 
tions ; but in depriving The Trial of its fair proportions he 
subjects us to the "most unkindest cut of all." Assuredly 
the reader should be the best judge of what is and what 
is not suited to his purpose, and yet there seems to be no 
good reason for the wholesale employment of a pruning- 
knife in this particular instance. What Dickens sup- 
presses would not materially add to the length of the Eead- 
ing, while the amount of effect lost is very considerable. 
Dickens is guilty of unjustifiable homicide. How he can 
wilfully cut the throat of Thomas GrofQn, the chemist. 



I 



THE TEIAL FROM PICKWICK, 101 

f 

thereby preventing him from being sworn in as a juror 
and indulging in an edifying conversation with Mr. Jus- 
tice Stareleigh, passeth all understanding. Eobbing Ser- 
geant Buzfuz of one of the greatest points in his address 
to the jury is even more extraordinary. "Let me tell him " 
(Pickwick), "gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or 
disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will 
not go down with you ; that you will know how to value 
and how to appreciate them ; and let me tell him further, 
as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the 
discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimi- 
dated, nor bullied, nor put down ; and that any attempt to 
do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will 
recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be 
he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, 
or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson ! " That Dickens should 
ignore this sentence, which may be called the heart of the 
address, and is full of just such effects as he best knows 
how to produce, appears almost incredible. Less strange 
is the suppression of Mr. Winkle's cross-examination by 
Mr. Phunkey and Sergeant Buzfuz, although no one who 
has seen Dickens in his great character of Winkle will 
ever cease to sigh over its omission. The most unpardon- 
able sin of all, however, is Dickens's inhuman treatment 
of Sam Weller. He actually prevents Sam from making 
two of his best speeches. Said Sam, " I had a reg'lar fit 
out o' clothes that mornin', gen'l'men of the jury, and that 
was a wery particler and uncommon circumstance with 



102 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS's READINGS. 

me in those days." " The little judge, looking with an 
angry countenance over his desk, said, 'You had better 
be careful, sir.' " 

" ' So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my lord,' replied 
Sam, ' and I was wery careful o' that 'ere suit o' clothes ; 
wery careful indeed, my lord.' " Astounding though it 
be, the little judge does not give Sam his cue, " You had 
better be careful " ; consequently Sam cannot make the 
retort courteous. And what is worse, — so bad that if 
there were a degree beyond the superlative it should be 
expressed by it, — Sam's final interrogatory remark to 
the Court, " Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me 
anythin' ? " is treated with as much silent contempt as 
if it had never been made. The friends of Sam Weller 
should protest as one man against this indignity, and 
demand satisfaction of Dickens. Is this indignity to be 
taken " in a common sense " ? or is it to be regarded from 
" a Pickwickian point of view ? " 

It may be ungrateful to look a gift-horse in the mouth ; 
but when that horse has a beautiful mane and tail which 
are unnecessarily curtailed by too much "Englishing," 
should we not demur, particularly when that horse is 
Dickens's cheval de hataille ? 

Inner consciousness will accomplish miracles. It once 
evolved a camel ; and I thought, not long ago, that it had 
evolved this famous " Pickwick Trial " so completely as 
to contest the honors with reality. I was mistaken, and 
now confess that I never knew Tiow great The Trial wa3 



THE TKIAL FROM PICKWICK. 103 

until Dickens made a panorama of himself, turned a 
crank, and unwound the entire scene. The eight char- 
acters that figure in the court-room are matchlessly 
delineated, while the assumption of the court itself is 
truly wonderful. When Dickens appears as " the little 
judge," the theory of metempsychosis seems to be prac- 
tically carried out, Dickens steps out of his own skin 
which, for the time being, is occupied by Justice Stare- 
leigh. His little round eyes, wide open and blinking ; 
his elevated eyebrows that are in a constant state of 
interrogation ; his mouth, drawn down by the weight of 
the law; the expression of the ensemble, which clearly 
denotes that everybody is a rascal whether found guilty 
or not ; and the stern, iron-clad voice, apparently measur- 
ing out justice in as small quantities as possible, and 
never going faster than a dead march, — make up an 
impersonation that is extraordinary, even for Dickens. 

Court. " Wlio is with you. Brother Buzfuz ? . . . . 
Anybody with you. Brother Snubbin ? " 

" Mr. Phunkey, my lord." 

Coitrt. " Go on." This " go on " seals Justice Stare- 
leigh's fate. The door of the court seems to shut with a 
gruff click, and the satire is complete. 

Though a less original creation, Sergeant Buzfuz is 
truly admirable. He whispers to Dodson, confers briefly 
with Fogg, settles his wig, and proceeds to address the 
jury. The rising inflection — which, if not natural to 
Dickens, has been adopted by him to overcome the 



104 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

defects of an imperfect voice — here produces most 
comical effects. "Never, from the very first moment 
of his applying himself to the study and practice * 

law, 
the 
of 

had he approached a case with such a heavy re-spon-si- 
bi-li-ty imposed 

him, — 
upon 

a re-spon-si-bi-li-ty he could never have sup- 

ed, 

port 

were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction, so 
strong that it amounted to positive 

cer^ y 
tain 

that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the 
cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, 

vail — 
must 

pre' 

must vail I ** 

pre^ 



THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. 105 

The intonation and action accompanying the repetition 
of these final words are delightfully burlesque. Sergeant 
Buzfuz draws back his head and then throws* it forward 
to add impressiveness to speech, while a muscular contor- 
tion going on at the back of his neck and rippling down 
his shoulders suggests memories of a heavy swell on the 
ocean. Truth and justice are evidently convulsed. 

The Sergeant thrills his auditors by suiting the action 
to the word, and bringing down his hand with a mighty 
bang on the " box " in which " the unimpeachable female," 
Mrs. Bardell, is to be placed. 

" Here one poor word a hundred clinclies makes ! " 
He is no less affecting when, speaking of his client 
as a widow, "yes, gentlemen, a widow," he produces a 
pocket-handkerchief for appropriate application, and re- 
fers to the late Mr. Bardell's having "glided almost 
imperceptibly from the world to seek elsewhere for that 
repose and peace which a custom-house 

never ford ! " 

can 

af 



mj," 



bo" 



" lit-t\e 
If the 



on whom Mr. BardeU " stamped his likeness," was ever as 
funny as Sergeant Buzfuz's mention of him, he ought to 

5* 



106 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

have fully compensated " the unimpeachable female " for 
the loss of her custom-house officer. The same learned 
gentleman's 'rendering of the inscription, " Apartments 
furnished for 

sin gentleman. 

a gle. 

Ill in!" 

quire with 

is such oratory as might move the most obdurate to tears. 
(I do not specify what kind of tears.) 

A single gentleman is no sooner invited to inquire 
within than a juror, with an anxious countenance, expres- 
sive of a profound sense of responsibility, starts up and 
inquires without, " There is no date to that ; is there, 
sir ? " If I were a court, I should always insist upon 
having that conscientious man impanelled. 

Mr, Pickwick merely writhes in silence, but when 
Sergeant Buzfuz directs attention to him, — "if he be in 
court as I am informed 

is!" — 
he 

and aims the forefinger of his right hand at the defendant's 
head, it becomes a query whether grotesque action is not 
as difficult to excel in as absolute grace. Dickens has 
learned its secret. 



THE TRIAL FKOM PICKWICK. 107 

The great points of Mr. Pickwick's having once patted 
Master Bardell " on the head," 

* head ! " 



"on 



the 



and of his having made use of the remarkable expres- 
sion, " How should you like to have 

yOth ther?" 

an er fa 

are brought out most effectively, while " Chops ! Gracious 
heavens ! and Tomato sauce ! " and that other very re- 
markable expression, "Don't trouble yourseK about the 
warming-pan," together with the Sergeant's surprised 
inquiry, " "Why, gentlemen, what lady 

trouble herself about 
does pan ? " 

a warnung 

are received with aU the approbation they so richly de- 
serv^e. When Sergeant Buzfuz appeals for damages "to 
an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscien- 
tious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative, 
and I may say a highly poetic jury of her civilized country- 
men," his peroration takes instant effect, and he retires 
behind a round of applause. 

Mrs. Cluppins is no sooner called than she appears, and 
in voice and physiognomy does ample justice to i' Mrs. 



108 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Bardell's bosom-friend, number one." She assures my 
lord and jury that she will not deceive them, whereupon 
the little judge almost entirely covers himself with glory, 
by slowly shaking his profound head at her, and saying, 
" You had better not, ma am" The little of the little 
judge left unadorned by the before-mentioned enviable 
article of apparel is quickly covered, upon Mrs. Cluppins's 
remarking that she " see Mrs. Bardell's street door on the 
jar. 

" On the what ? " asks the judge in a state of owl-like 
astonishment. 

" Partly open, my lord, partly open." 

" She said on the jar " ; and the little judge is at this 
moment a parody on all the legal stupidity that ever or- 
namented England's bar. 

" liathaniel Winkle," cries Mr. Skimpin. 

" He-ah, he-ah," replies an embarrassed voice, and we 
meet face to face our old friend of the green shooting- 
coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely-fitted drabs. This 
easily discomposed gentleman is surely he who was so 
brave at duelling ; who attempted to mount his horse on 
the wrong side, and when he got off the animal's back 
could not possibly get up again ; who fired at rooks and 
brought down the left arm of his friend, Mr. Tupman. By 
the professional way in which Mr. Skimpin badgers our 
sporting friend and rolls the badgering as a sweet morsel 
imder his tongue, — the expression of his countenance 
denotiTig positive delight in the work before him, — one 



2 



CO 
> 

O 
w 

> 

D 

S 
w 

o 




THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. 109 

might believe that Dickens had passed the greater part 
of his life in trying the law, or being tried by it. The 
scene wherein the little judge browbeats Winkle on the 
subject of the latter's name ought to be handed down to 
posterity ; but alas ! it never can be, and this is the worst 
of acting — and of posterity. 

Court. " Have — you — any — Christian — name, sir ? " 

" Nathaniel, sir ? " 

Court. " Dan-iel. Have — you — any — other — 
name ? " 

" 'Sdithaniel, sir, — my lord, I mean." 

Court. " 'Nsi-thaniel Dan-iel, — or i^a^i-iel "Nathan- 
iel ? " 

"No, my lord, only N&tJianiel ; not Dan-iel at all, 
my lord, Neithaniel." 

Court. " What — did — you — tell — me — it — was 
— Daniel for, then, sir ? " 

" I did n't, my lord." 

Court. " You — did — sir. How — could — I — pos- 
sibly — have — got — Daniel — on — my — notes — un- 
less — you — told me so, sir ? " 

The contrast between the flustered stammering of poor 
Winkle and the impenetrable infallibility of Justice 
Stareleigh, delivered in a slow, authoritative tone, as if 
founded on the Eock of Ages, is remarkable. Then Mr. 
Skimpin resumes his pleasant pastime, — which may be 
likened to a mental bull-fight, Mr. Skimpin being the 
triumphant bull engaged in goring Winkle, the inexpe- 
rienced matadore. 



110 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

"0, you don't know the plaintiff, but you have seen 
her ? Now will you please to tell the gentlemen of the 
jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle ? " 

After hearing Mr. Winkle's reply to this aggravating 
question, it is possible to believe that " even a worm will 
turn." Our sporting friend, as we all know, is not very 
combative, but wherever his combativeness may be situ- 
ated, the goring has at last reached it. Mr. Winkle does 
not assault Mr. Skimpin, — for under greater provocation 
it would be contrary to our friend's constitution to assault 
anybody, — but he does all that may become a Winkle. 
He writhes in the witness-box ; he grows so red in the 
face as to render his plaid neckerchief pale by compari- 
son, and is only saved from strangulation by finding vent 
for his feelings in the words, " God bless mi/ soul ! I mean 
that I am not intimate with her, but that I have seen her 
when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street." 

At this crisis Mr. Winkle is immensely satisfactory to 
his friends, yet he is almost as delightful when he 
endeavors to gulp down the confession that he did see 
Mrs. Bardell in Mr. Pickwick's arms, and did hear him 
ask " the good creature to compose herself" Mr. 
Winkle's attempt to swallow several of the most impli- 
cative words, which attempt is finally overwhelmed by a 
stern devotion to truth that draws out the facts with a 
species of mental corkscrew, leaves nothing more to be 
desired. 

At the close of this incomparable examination, Su- 



THE TRIAL FROM PICKWICK. Ill 

sannah Saunders, "bosom-friend number two," performs 
her small part with credit to herself and Mr, Saunders, 
after which Sergeant Buzfuz rises to the occasion and 
cries out, " Call Samuel Weller ! " 

If conclusions may be drawn from the applause that 
greets this announcement, there never was so universal a 
favorite as Samuel Weller. Everybody looks intensely 
pleased and everybody settles himself as if saying, " Now 
I shall enjoy myself more than I ever did in my life." Is 
it strange that many are disappointed ? Almost every- 
body has a pet theory with regard to Sam Weller, and 
no two of these innumerable theories agree. Surely, 
then, it is not astonishing that Dickens's interpretation 
fails to satisfy unreasonable expectations. People look 
upon Sam as neither fish, flesh, nor fowl ; as some 
lusus naturce to be impossibly portrayed. Dickens's 
Sam Weller is a human being, very like other human 
beings belonging to the same profession. Sam has com- 
13aratively little to do in court, yet he is expected to 
crowd his entire life into a few sentences, that, from the 
very nature of the case, must be delivered quietly and 
with sly rather than boisterous humor. Sam never is 
boisterous, however. If ever there was a cool, selfrpos- 
sessed individual with a supreme contempt for people 
who, like Weller Senior, are given to explosions of mirth, 
it is Sam. It does not necessarily follow, because Dickens 
has created Sam, that he is therefore most competent to 
delineate him. Shakespeare never soared higher than 



112 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

the Ghost in " Hamlet," and the impression left upon 
posterity is that he was a better manager than actor. 
Lee read Ms dramatic works like an angel ; but when 
he strode the stage, the angel became a walking-stick. 
Sheridan Knowles was a shocking bad actor. But 
Dickens is so saturated with dramatic ideas, and em- 
bodies these ideas so weU, as to render it safe to declare 
him the best judge of Sam's nature. If Americans were 
Englishmen, they would see the truthfulness of this por- 
traiture. But nothing in the world can save Sam from 
being entirely eclipsed by Justice Stareleigh. 

" Little to do and plenty to get, I suppose," exclaims 
Sergeant Buzfuz, referring to Sam's situation with Mr. 
Pickwick. 

" 0, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven 
they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes." 

Coiirt. " You - must - not - tell-us-what-tlie-sol-dier-said. 
The-evi-dcnce-o/-tJiat-sol-dier-can-not-he-received-ionless-tJiat 
-soldier-is-i'n-court,-cind-is-ex-am-ined-in-the-%isual-way" 

The little judge covers himself with a second coat of 
glory, and the text furnishes Sam with no opportunity to 
establish his superiority over the most stupid and learned 
bigwig. As before intimated, Sam's best chance of being 
as slyly funny as he can be is in the expurgated ques- 
tion, " Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me any- 
thin' ? " By restoring it, and by illustrating how Sam 
retires from the witness-box, Dickens might add another 
green leaf to his laurels. 



THE TEIAL FROM PICKWICK. 113 

No one is disappointed in Tony Weller, because Tony 
Weller's most remarkable characteristics are his " hoarse 
voice, like some strange effort of ventriloquism," "the 
extreme tip of a very rubicund nose/' " an underdone 
roast-beef complexion," and an unbounded stomach. Con- 
sequently Tony "Weller has but to open his mouth to 
stand before us in his full proportions; that is, when 
Dickens assumes the roU. His exclamation, " Quite 
right too, Samivel, quite right. Fut it down, a we,, my 
lord, put it dovj7i a we ! " takes the audience by storm, 
the author's identification with the character being com- 
plete. He not only talks like Tony, but, expanding under 
the influence of beer and countless wrappers, he suggests 
the immortal stage-driver's personnel ; and when the trial 
is over, and Tony Weller moralizes over it, saying, " I 
know'd what 'ud come o' this here way o' doin' bisniss. 
Samivel, Samivel, vy warnt there a alley bi ! " it seems 
hardly possible that the slight, energetic man, who, a 
moment later, walks briskly off the stage, can have pro- 
duced so perfect an illusion. 



114 PEN PHOTOGEAPHS OF DICKENS'S EEADINGS. 



X. 

MRS. GAMP. 

T I 1HERE still live Americans who, forgetting the con- 
dition of this country thirty years ago, insist upon 
taking their Dickens with a difference. But, young as 
we still are, — for we have not yet shed our sophomoric 
skin, — I do not believe there is an American " erect upon 
two legs " who is capable of writing a book as " a just 
retaliation" upon English criticism of these thoroughly 
pure and perfect United States. There once did live 
such a being. In 1837 one "Ml Admirari, Esq.," felt 
himself called upon to resent foreign insult in " a satire " 
entitled " The Trollopiad ; or. Travelling Gentleman in 
America." It is a sorry satire, yet it points a moral of 
such homely use as to be worthy of resuscitation to the 
extent of a few lines of " verse " that now pass for some- 
thing worse. 

" Ingenious Trollope ! name forever dear, , 

Well known at home, but quite notorious here ; 
To you, as first and foremost in the band, 
I bow my obsequious head and kiss ony hand ! 
0, smoothly — softly, flows this verse of mine, 
So sweet a name should grace a lay divine. 
Yield up the palm, ye scribblers great and small. 
Faux — Fearon — Fiddler — Stuart — Captain Hall, 
Behold your chief." 



MES. GAMP. 115 

Fanny Wriglit is vitiiperously anniMlated as " "brawling 
Fanny," and Fanny Kemble, the woman whom we are 
all pleased to honor, is impaled through pages of invec- 
tive. 

** Since truth must out ; in vain tlie trutli we fly, 
We ' can't be silent,' and 'we will not lie.' 
Wlien known Initials meet the public gaze, 
And Fanny's pointless chatter sues for praise, 
The rising voice of censure wherefore hush ? 
For cheeks no longer conscious of a blush." 

This is American susceptibility thirty years ago ; and 
although when, five years later, " American Notes " were 
put in circulation, and were succeeded by " Martin Chuz- 
zlewit," the indignation of no Nil Admirari, Esq., rose to 
the lofty height of a book, the press and people shrieked 
with rage, and Charles Dickens was more roundly rated 
than ever man or woman can be as^ain, thank Heaven ! 
It was foolish, unnecessary rage, that reflected discredit 
upon this country without in any way injuring Dickens. 
It was foolish, because it was childish ; it was unneces- 
sary, because, under the most aggravated circumstances, 
such an exposition is beneath the dignity of a self-re- 
specting people. 

No impartial, clear-headed reader of the present gen- 
eration can lash himself into a fury over the " American 
Notes." He is amazed that anybody ever did become 
infuriated, and closes the book with a feeling of agreeable 
disappointment. For myself, I honor Dickens for speak- 



116 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

ing the Trutli ! He did not come to America as a politi- 
cal economist, and therefore did not attempt to deal in ' 
profundities after the manner of De Tocqueville. He 
reported society as he saw it, knowing full well the con- 
sequences it entailed, yet knowing also, as he then said, 
" that what I have set down in these pages cannot cost 
me a single friend on the other side of the Atlantic who 
is in anything deserving of the name. For the rest, I put 
my trust implicitly in the spirit in which they have been 
conceived and penned ; and I can bide my time." That 
time has arrived, and when George William Curtis spoke 
for himself at the dinner given to Dickens by the New York 
Press, he spoke for the majority of his countrymen : — 

" Fidelity to his own observation is all that we can ask 
of any reporter. However grateful he may be for our hos- 
pitality, we cannot insist that he shaU pour our cham- 
pagne into his eyes so that he cannot see, nor stuff our 
pudding into his ears so that he cannot hear. Dickens was 
obliged to hear and see and report many things that were 
not pleasant nor flattering. It is the fate of all reporters. 
I do not remember that those very competent observers, 
Mr. Emerson and Mr. Hawthorne, whom we sent to 
England, represented that country as altogether a paradise 
and John Bull as a saint without blemish. They told a 
great deal of truth about England, as it seems to me our 
friend told a great many wholesome and valuable truths 
aboiit us. Naturally we did not find every part of his 
report very entertaining ; but neither, I suppose, did Lord 



MRS. GAMP. 117 

Dedlock find " Bleak House " very amusing, and I am sure 
that to this day neither Sergeant Buzfuz nor the Lord 
Chief- Justice Stareleigh have ever been able to find the 
least fun in Pickwick. For my undivided thirty-millionth 
part of the population, I thank the reporter with all my 
heart ; and I do not forget that if his touch, like the ray of a 
detective's lantern, sparkled for a moment upon some of 
our defects, the full splendor of its light has been always 
turned upon the sins and follies of his own country." 

I honor Dickens most especially fbr daring to enter his 
solemn and indignant protest against the great wrong 
that in those distant days spread its virus over all the 
land, and made America a republic but in name. The 
■wrong now righted, our flag is no longer a caricature on 
liberty. So to-day, conscious that we can look Europe 
in the face without danger of being upbraided for a na- 
tional sin, wiser in head, calmer in temper, and with 
more regard for the amenities of life, we accept the 
" American Notes " as a record of" a past to which we can 
never return, and agree with Lord Francis Jeffrey in the 
estimate which he made of the book in a letter that I 
cannot forego transplanting to American soil. 

"Ceaigcrook, 16th October, 1842. 

"My dear Dickens, — 

"A thousand thanks to you for your charming book, 
and for all the pleasure, profit, and relief it has afforded 
me. You have been very tender to our sensitive friends 
beyond sea, and really said nothing which should give 



118 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

serious offence to any moderately rational patriot among 
them. The slavers, of course, will give you no quarter; 
and I suppose you did not expect they should [sic\. 
But I do not think you could have said less ; and my 
vrhole heart goes along with every word you have writ- 
ten. Some people will be angry, too, that you have been 
so strict to observe their spitting, and neglect of ablutions, j 
&c. And more, that you should have spoken with so I 
little reverence of their courts of law and State legisla- , 
ture, and even of their grand Congress itseK. But all j 
this latter part is done in such a spirit of good-humored 
playfulness, and so mixed up with clear intimations, that 
you have quite as little veneration for things of the same 
sort at home, that it will not be easy to represent it as the 
fruit of English insolence and envy. ': 

"As to the rest, I think you have perfectly accom- 
plished all that you profess or undertake to do, and that 
the world has never yet seen a more faithful, graphic, 
amusing, kind-hearted narrative than you have now be- 
stowed on it. Always graceful and lively and sparkling 
and indulgent, and yet relieved, or ratlier (in the French 
sense of the word) exalted, by so many suggestions of deep 
thought, and so many touches of tender and generous 
sympathy (caught at once, and recognized like the signs 
of Freemasonry by all whose hearts have been instructed 
in these mysteries), that it must be our own fault if we 
are not as much improved as delighted by the perusal. 
Your account of the silent or solitary imprisonment 



MES. GAMP. 119 

system is as pathetic and powerful a piece of writing 
as I have ever seen ; and your sweet, airy little snatch 
of the happy little woman taking her new babe home to 
her young husband, and your manly and feeling appeal in 
behaK of the poor Irish (or rather of the affectionate poor 
of all races and tongues), who are patient and tender to 
their children under circumstances which would make 
half the exemplary parents among the rich monsters of 
selfishness and discontent, remind us that we have still 
among us the creator of Nelly and Smike, and the school- 
master, and his dying pupil, &c., and must continue to 
win for you still more of that homage of the heart, that 
love and esteem of the just and the good, which, though 
it should never be disjoined from them, I think you must 
already feel to be better than fortune or fame. 

"Well, I have no doubt your three thousand copies 
will be sold in a week, and I hope you will tell me that 
they have put £ 1,000 at least into your pocket. Many 
people will say that the work is a slight one, and say it, 
perhaps, truly ; but everybody will read it, and read it 
^vith pleasure to themselves and growing regard for the 
author. More — and perhaps with hctter reason, for I 
am myself in the number — will think there is rather 
too much of Laura Bridgman and penitentiaries, &c., in 
general. But that, I believe, is chiefly because we grudge 
being so long parted from the personal presence of our 
entertainer, as we are by these interludes, and therefore 
we hope to be forgiven by him." 



120 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS S READINGS. 

As for certain American portraits painted in " Martin 
Chuzzlewit," I should as soon think of objecting to them 
as I should think of objecting to any other discovery in 
natural history. To deny the existence of Elijah Pogram, 
Jefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Mrs. Hominy, and Miss 
Codger, is to deny facts, somewhat exaggerated, that are 
potent to any keen observer who has ever travelled 
through the United States. The character of Elijah 
Pogram is so well known as to constantly figure in the 
world of illustration, and we can well afford to laugh at 
foibles of native growth when Dickens devotes the 
greater part of this same novel to the exposition of Eng- 
lish vice and selfishness. But if ever Americans thought 
they had reason to feel aggrieved, the night of the 18th of 
April, 1868, closed the old w^ound forever. Erank, gen- 
erous, and just, every inch the man we beheve him to be, 
he stood up before the Press of New York and pledged 
his manhood in these memorable words : " I henceforth 
charge myself, not only here but on every suitable occa- 
sion, whatsoever and wheresoever, to express my high and 
grateful sense of my second reception in America, and to 
bear my honest testimony to the national generosity and 
magnanimity. Also, to declare how astounded I have 
heen by the amazing changes that I have seen around me 
on every side, — changes moral, changes physical, changes 
in the amount of land subdued and cultivated, changes in 
the rise of vast new cities, changes in the growth of older 
cities almost out of recognition, changes in the growth of 



MRS. GAMP. 121 

the graces and amenities of life, changes in the press, 
without whose advancement no advancement can take 
place anywhere. Nor am I, believe me, so arrogant as 
to suppose that in five-and-twenty years there have been 
no changes in me, and that I had nothing to learn and 
no extreme impressions to correct when I was here first. 
.... Wliat I have intended, what I have resolved upon, 
is, on my return to England, in my own English journal, 
manfully, promptly, plainly, in my own person, to bear, 
for the behoof of my countrymen, such testimony to the 
gigantic changes in this country as I have hinte.d at to- 
night. Also, to record that wherever I have been, in the 
smallest places equally with the largest, I have been re- 
ceived with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet tem- 
per, hospitality, and consideration, and with unsurpass- 
able respect for the privacy daily enforced upon me by the 
nature of my avocation here and the state of my health. 
This testimony, so long as I live, and so long as my de- 
scendants have any legal right in my books, I shall cause 
to be republished, as an appendix, to every copy of those 
two books of mine in which I have referred to America. 
And this I will do and cause to be done, not in mere love 
and thankfulness, but because I regard it as an act of 
plain justice and honor." \\niat more can the most ram- 
pant patriot demand of Dickens ? Who is there that can 
henceforth refuse to do justice to his manhood, if not to 
his art ? 

I may be accused of having wandered far away from the 

6 



122 PEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

heading of this chapter, and yet liow can any of us think 
of Mrs. Gamp without first recalling Martin Chuzzlewit ? 
and how can the mind dwell upon Martin Chuzzlewit 
Avithout reviving memories of the " American Notes " ? 
It seems to me that at the present time such a digression 
is most pardonable, as it brings America and Charles Dick- 
ens face to face, and leaves them shaking hands in great 
good-humor. 

"When Sam Weller concluded the valentine which he 
wrote to the young lady whom he regarded with a favor- 
able ey.e, he remarked to his father, " She '11 vish there 
vos more, and that 's the great art o' letter- wiitin'." In 
Ids reading of Mrs. Gamp, Dickens seems to act upon 
this .Wellerian principle, for we most certainly wish there 
was more, and look upon it as an aggravation. To be 
deprived of an introduction to Mrs. Todgers and her Com- 
mercial Boarding-House ; not to hear the sound of Mark 
Tapley's voice ; not to listen to Elijah Pogram as he ex- 
claims, " Our fellow-countrymen is a model of a man, 
quite fresh from Nature's mould ! He is a true-born 
child of this free hemisphere ! Verdant as the mountains 
of our country ; bright and flowing as our mineral Licks, 
unspiled by withering conventionalities as air our broad 
and boundless Perearers ! Kough he may be, so air our 
Barrs. Wild he may be, so air our Buffalers. But he is 
a child of Natur', and a cliild of Freedom ; and his boast- 
ful answer to the Despot and the Tyrant is, that his briglit 
home is in the Settin' Sun " ; — not to witness the presen- 



MKS. GAMP. 123 

tation of Miss Toppit and Miss Codger to the honorable 
Pogram, and hear their eloquent outpourings on that 
thrilling occasion, — " To be presented to a Pogram by a 
Hominy, indeed, a thrilling moment is it in its impressive- 
ness on what we call our feelings. But why we call 
them so, or why impressed they are, or if impressed they 
are at all, or if at all we are, or if there really is, gasp- 
ing one ! a Pogram or a Hominy, or any active principle, 
to which we give those titles, is a topic, Spirit searching, 
light abandoned, much too vast to enter on at this un- 
looked-for crisis." " Mind and matter glide swift into 
the vortex of immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly 
sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of 
Imagination. To hear it, sweet it is. But then, out 
laughs the stern philosopher, and saith to the Grotesque, 
What ho ! arrest for me that Agencj. Go bring it 
here ! and so the vision fadeth." — To be deprived of 
all these inalienable rights, I repeat, is bad enough, 
but when Mrs. Gamp's identical self is presented to us 
in a mangled condition, we are impelled to expostulate 
seriously. Mrs. Gamp is seen in sections. Large slices 
liaving been taken out of her, she is put together again so 
deftly as to look like quite a good-sized individual, but 
those of us who " know her for our own " perceive that 
she has been " led a martha to the stakes " of inexorable 
time's decrees, and that her garrulous tongue has been so 
reefed as to carry but half sail. Such liberties are " Bra- 
gian boldness," and quite sufficient to draw tears from 



124 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Mrs. Harris's eyes ; but by Mrs. Gamp's own confession 
her " constitooshun " is made of Bricks, and therefore is 
capable of untold endurance. Besides, Mrs. Gamp is re- 
ligiously submissive, as she herself confesses. " We gives 
no trust ourselves, and puts a deal o' trust elsevere ; these 
is our religious feelin's, and we finds 'em answer." And 
Mrs. Harris also will take comfort, for "seech is life. 
Vich likeways is the hend of all things ! " 

Nevertheless, even in the form of a pasticcio, Mrs. 
Gamp is exceedingly palatable, for no one knows better 
than Dickens what ingredients to put into a pasticcio, 
or how to cook it. Taking that portion of Mrs. Gamp 
which is to be found in the beginning of the nineteenth 
chapter of "Martin Chuzzlewit," where this celebrated 
lady is first brought before the public, the feast is not 
permitted to be a movable one, but, by extracting a 
speech here and a speech there, and by addressing con- 
versations to different characters from those in the novel, 
the entire scene is made to transpire at the house of 
Jonas Chuzzlewit. The episodes, the dialogues, are well 
chosen, — nothing could be better, — until the closing 
.scene, when the human mind revolts at a gross injustice 
to Mrs. Gamp, and her great contemporary, Betsey Prig. 
It was not to be expected from the very nature of the 
case that the whole of the immortal forty-ninth chapter, 
" in which Mrs. Harris, assisted by a tea- pot, is the cause 
of a division between friends," should have been added to 
Mrs. Gamp's remains at the Chuzzlewit mansion ; but it 



MRS. GAMP. 125 

loas to be expected, in bringing Mrs. Gamp to a conclu- 
sion by the introduction of her difference with Betsey 
Prig, that the finale of this difference would be given in 
its entirety. What disappoints in Mrs. Gamp is the ab- 
sence of a climax. It is the only one of Dickens's Head- 
ings that is not thoroughly worked up. Extreme length 
cannot be advanced as a plea, because Mrs. Gamp is 
provokingly short. Indeed, it may be truthfully claimed 
of her that she is as broad as she is long. 

" Man needs but little here below," 
But ' ' needs that little " strong. 

No one is better acquainted with this universal law 
than Dickens. Yet in the face of what Mrs. Gamp would 
call a " mortar," he concludes his Eeading with this brief 
extract from the Battle of the Tea-Pot : 

" ' Mrs. Harris, Betsey — ' 

" ' Bother Mrs. Harris ! ' 

" Mrs. Gamp looked at Betsey with amazement, incre- 
dulity, and indignation. Mrs. Prig, winking her eye 
tighter, folded her arms and uttered these tremendous 
words : — 

" ' I don't beheve there 's no sich a person ! ' 

" With these expressions, she snapped her fingers once, 
twice, thrice, each time nearer to the face of Mrs. Gamp, 
and then turned away as one who felt that there was now 
a gulf between them wliich nothing could ever bridge 
across." 



126 PEX PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Fancy tlie hardness of a heart that can steel itself 
against tlie Gampian exclamation, "Who deniges of it, 
Betsey ? Betsey, who deniges of it ? " when the tone of 
that exclamation might have been everlastingly em- 
balmed in our memories ! Think of the mental deprav- 
ity which ignores that solemn injunction, " No, Betsey ! 
Drink fair, wotever you do ! " — that turns its meta- 
phorical back upon the sage proverb, " We never knows 
wot 's hidden in each other's 'arts ; and if we had glass 
winders there, we 'd need to keep the shutters up, some 
on us, I do assure you." Finally, — and this is the rank 
offence, — think of the inhumanity of an author who 
puts aside so touching and recriminating a peroration 
as the following : " The words Betsey Prig spoke of Mrs. 
Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey, nor worms 
forget ! .... Betsey Prig, wot wickedness you 've 
showed this night, but never shall you darken Sairey's 
doors agen, you twining serpiant ! " With this jDero- 
ration all the other reefs in the Gampian sails might 
have been overlooked ; without it, we 

" will fight with him upon this theme 
Until' our 'eyelids will no longer wag." 

" Her name was Gamp." AVliat the philosophy of the 
fact may be I am not prepared to state under oath ; but 
it is a fact, that, of all the characters brought before the 
public by Dickens, at his Readings in America, but two 
have had what, on the stage, is called a " reception." 



MRS. GAMP. 127 

These are Sam Weller and Mrs. Gamp, the first mention 
of either name being sufficient to evoke a round of ap- 
plause. Why Sam Weller should be hailed with demon- 
strations of regard is ob\dous enough; but why Sairey 
Gamp should be honored above the good, the true, and 
the brave, is almost as great a mystery as the existence 
of Mrs. Harris herself. For Sairey Gamp is not beautiful 
to sight, or sound, or sense of smell. She takes snuff ex- 
ternally as well as internally ; she wears a rusty black 
gown and a red, swollen nose, and is irretrievably given 
over to cant and lying. AVhat, then, is the secret of her 
immense popularity ? If I am not mistaken, the ap- 
plause that greets her name is the homage man pays to 
mother-wit as wit, regardless of its tenor. Man, in a 
sympathetic state of culture, can no more help appre- 
ciating humor than he can helj) being born. Now Sairey 
Gamp is a delightful old wretch because her mother-wit 
leads her into labyrinthine humor, the virtue of which 
lies in its unconsciousness, and the end of which is ar- 
rived at by means of a special providence. " II parait 
qu'elle fait de la prose sans le savoir^ Wlien Sairey 
Gamp once begins to talk, there seems to be no good 
reason why she should ever stop ; but she does stop, 
and always at the proper time. Some people who never 
wish to give credit where credit is due, insist that this 
is entirely owing to Dickens, who reports only so much 
of her conversation as suits his purpose ; but / believe 
that Mrs. Gamp is a spiritual medium, in more ways 



128 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKENS'S KEADINGS. 

than one, and speaks when the spirit moves. Hers, too, is 
satisfactory hypocrisy. It is no " huge translation," but, 
like her false curls, so visible to the naked eye as to " be 
innocent of deception." She is her own signboard, and 
points in the direction in which she is sure to go. And, 
after all, Mrs. Gamp is not without sympathies ; she does 
go down to see poor Mrs. Jonas Chuzzlewit off on that 
" Confusion steamer," the " Ankworks package," and de- 
livers a feeling oration. Human nature is very much 
according to circumstances, and, did we occupy Mrs. 
Gamp's position in life, it is quite possible that we 
might look upon death and disease from a purely com- 
mercial point of view, and heartily sympathize with the 
nurse as she wishes Betsey Prig "lots o' sickness, my 
darlin' creetur ; . . . . and may our next meetin' be at 
a large family's, where they takes it reg'lar, one from 
another, turn and turn about, and has it business-like." 

"When Mr. Pecksniff applies himself to the knocker of 
Mrs. Gamp's front door in Kingsgate Street, High Hol- 
born, and the neighborliood becomes " alive with female 
heads," Dickens's eyes are so distended at the extraordi- 
nary spectacle as to remove all doubt as to the possibility 
of such a commotion. Wlien these ladies cry out with 
one accord, in a peculiarly anxious and feminine voice, 
" Knock at the winder, sir, knock at the w^inder. Lord 
bless you, don't lose no more time than you can help, — - 
knock at the winder," the evidence is conclusive. The 
street is alive with married ladies, and they cry aloud 



MRS. GAMP. 129 



" as one man." There is the lady of measured medium 
voice and scrutinizing eye, who mentally sketches Mr. 
Pecksniff, and observes, "He's as pale as a muffin." 
There is the lady of nervous-sanguine temperament, who 
quickly retorts with a toss of the head, " so he ought to 
be, if he 's the feelings of a man." There is the lady of 
a melancholy turn of mind and cast of countenance, the 
born victim of circumstances, who sees in Mr. Pecksniff 
her unrelenting Nemesis, and in a dejected but just-what- 
was-to-be-expected tone of voice remarks that " it always 
happened so with hcr^ The three types of character are 
defined ^\\i\\ photographic accuracy. The old motto 
" Life is short and Art is long " finds no exemplification 
in Dickens. He so fully appreciates human exigencies 
as, by a graphic short-hand of his own, to bring a vast deal 
of art within the boundaries of no time at all. Thus 
when Mrs. Gamp's dulcet voice is heard for the first time 
in answer to Mr. Pecksniff's raid upon the flower -pots, 
and she replies, " I 'm a-comin'," Mrs. Gamp is her " indi- 
wig'le " self The recognition is immediate, and the ap- 
plause enthusiastic. Were Dickens nothing more than a 
voice, this most expressive she would still live, for it is 
such a voice ! Take a comb, cover it with tissue paper, 
and attempt to sing through it, and you have an admira- 
ble idea of the quality of Mrs. Gamp's vocal organ, pro- 
vided you make tlie proper allowance for an inordinate 
use of snuff. 

Mrs. Gamp in the distance behind her flower-pots is — 
6* I 



130 PEX PIIOTOGRArHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

Mrs. Gamp ; but when she throws open the window and 
exclaims, " Is it ISIrs. Perkins ? " eye as well as ear ac- 
knowledges an unswerving faith in her identity. Mr. 
Pecksniff repudiates the Perkinsian theory, whereupon 
Mrs. Gamp again dmws upon her imagination in the ex- 
clamation, " What, Mr. Whilks ! Don't say it 's you, Mr. 
Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs. Whilks with not even 
a pincushion ready. Don't say it 's you, ]\Ir. Wliilks ! " 
I have said that ]\Irs. Gamp exclaims. It is a mistake. 
This pride of her sex never exclaims. There is an intel- 
lectual ponderosity about her that renders an exclamation 
impossible. She carries too much ballast in the guise of 
that ale known as " Brighton old tipper," likewise of "gin- 
and-water, vmrm" to give way to anything like impulse. 
The exclamation of ordinary mortality is with her a good 
solid period. She scorns staccato passages, and her vocal- 
ization may be said to be confined to the use of semi- 
breves, on which she lingers as if desirous of developing 
her voice by what is technically known as " SM'elling." 
She holds all notions of light and shade in contempt, and 
with monotonous cadence produces effects upon her hear- 
ers undreamed of by her readers. 

" It is n't ^Ir. Whilks. It 's nothing of Mr. Whilks's 
sort," responds Mr. Pecksniff, somewhat testily. It is 
very funny, but Dickens is not ]\Ir. Pecksniff. We do 
not " behold the moral Pecksniff." Dickens's throat is 
not moral, nor does his collar say, " There is no deception, 
ladies and gentlemen, all is peace ; a holy calm pervades 



MRS. GAMP. 131 

me." His hair does not stand bolt upright, nor are his 
eyelids heavy, nor is his person sleek, nor is his manner 
soft and oily. It must be allowed that Mr. Pecksniff is 
hardly more than a supernumerary in this serio-comic 
afterpiece, but Dickens always treats supernumeraries 
with distinguished consideration, and with him we are 
nothing if not critical. The old bookkeeper Chuffey, on 
the contrary, who is seen and heard but once, stands out 
vividly. " My old master died at threescore and ten, — 
ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that 
they live to fourscore — four times ought 's an ought, 
four times two 's an eight — eighty. Oh ! why — why — 
why — did n't he live to four times ought 's an ought, and 
four times two 's an eight — eighty ? Why did he die 
before his poor old crazy servant ! Take him from me, 
and what remains ? I loved him. He was good to me. 
I took him down once, eight boys in the arithmetic class 
at school. O, God forgive me ! Had I the heart to 
take him down ! " The fine " points " of this short mono- 
logue are seized by Dickens. The picture of the meek, 
heart-broken, maundering, faithful servant, with decrepit 
figure, quavering voice, and trembling hands, w^hose rul-" 
ing, passion is strong even in the presence of death, and 
who can only calculate grief as an arithmetical problem, 
is painted in natural colors ; nor is there exaggeration 
in the drawing. No less clever is the suggestive sketsli 
of Jonas Chuzzlewit. " There is n't any one you 'd like 
to ask to the funeral, is there, Pecksniff? .... Because if 



132 PEX PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

there is, you know, ask him. "We don't want to make a 

secret of it We 'II have the doctor, Pecksniff, because 

he knows what was the matter with my father, and that 
it could n't be helped." With nervous manner, twitching 
lingers, and with terror written upon his face, the bully- 
ing coward, .now bullied by his own conscience, gasps 
rather than speaks in a hoarse voice, laying liis hand to 
his throat as if ready to choke down tell-tale words, 
should any inadvertently escape his lips. Dickens may 
not be able to look like a Pecksniffian hypocrite, but he 
certainly can look like a murderer. 

Dickens is not as successful in the slight character of 
Mr. Mould, because of Mr. ]Mould's strong resemblance 
to IMr. jNIicawber. The little bald undertaker is very highly 
tinctured with the essence of the incomparable Wilkins, 
and although the essence is in itself good, nevertheless, 
when employed as a flavoring extract, it fails to perform 
its earthly mission. Tliere is undoubtedly something 
Micawberisli in tlie vast importance of ]\Ir. Mould's 
manner, but j\Ir. jMould is too excellent a character not to 
be originally delineated. Dickens's Mr. jNIould is a very 
amusing person, — especially wlien, turning to Mr. Peck- 
sniff, he says in an aside, " Very shrewd woman, Mr. 
Pecksniff, &ir," referring to Mrs. Gamp. " Woman whose 
intellect is immensely superior to her station in life ; sort 
of woman one would really almost feel disposed to bury 
for nothing, and do it neatly, too," — but Mr. Mould can 




SAIREY GAMP AND BETSEY PRIG. 



MRS. GAMP. 133 

never hang in the Dickens Portrait Gallery. " C'est magni- 
fique, 77iais ce tiest pas la guerre." 

Nor, alas ! can we ever see there the classic features of 
Betsey Prig. The outline drawn by Dickens is not the 
" counterfeit presentment," but a hasty limning, executed 
apparently without any careful study of the original. 
This is the only theory upon which the absence of a 
speaking likeness can be accounted for. Mrs. Prig has " a 
gruff voice and a beard," — a mannish voice, if you like, — 
but is not " a man for a' that " ; and as the author of her 
being depicts this " interesting lady," she is superlatively 
a man. It does not for an instant occur to us that 
Dickens is anybody but Dickens in a demoralized con- 
dition of mind and countenance. There is no illusion, 
and notwithstanding that " the best of creeturs " bothers 
Mrs. Harris, assumes an attitude of defiance, winks her 
eye, declares " there 's no sich a person," and snaps her 
fingers in Mrs. Gamp's face, it is not the Mrs. Prig we 
have known these many years. With Beau Brummel's 
unaccomplished neckties, this present portrait must be 
recorded as among " our failures," — a failure that were 
easily retrieved did the artist pose his model carefully 
and begin on a new canvas. Should he do so, may he 
not forget to introduce a " cowcumber." 

" Nous revenous ton jours a nos premiers amours," and 
Mrs. Gamp so generously overflows the measure of our 
content as to soften the heart toward her professional 
partner. " And so the gentleman 's dead, sir ! Ah ! The 



13-i TEN PHOTOGKAPHS OF DICKENS'S READINGS. 

more's the pity. But it's what we must all come to. 
It 's as certain as being born, except that we can't 
make our calkilations as exact. Ah ! Poor dear ! " 
Mrs. Gamp's "All's," like Mr. Mould's coffins, are ready- 
made to suit all customers, and are as long or as short 
as circumstances require. Sighs become the lady's sta- 
tion in life. 

" When time shall serve, there shall be smiles," 

and whenever Mrs. Gamp sighs, she smiles in obedience 
to Shakespeare's text. The expression of her glowing 
face at this juncture defies language, however live, par- 
ticularly as she remarks to Mrs. Harris, with a pendulum 
wag to her head in the tempo of a funeral march, " If I 
could possible afford to lay all my feller-creeturs out for 
nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears 'em." 
Dore in his best manner, which was years ago, could not 
have been more grotesque than Dickens is, when Mrs. 
Gamp's " half a pint o' porter fully satisfies ; perwisin', 
Mrs. Harris, which I makes confession, that it is brought 
regular, and draidd mild." Like the warrior's charger, 
she smells, not the battle, but the bottle afar off, and her 
whole spiritual nature expands under the genial influence. 
" She would infect the north-star." 

But there are chords in Mrs. Gamp's heart that porter 
cannot reach. Those chords are only touched when Mrs. 
Gamp appears in the beautiful character of wife and 
m.other. " The blessings of a daughter was deniged me," 



MRS. GAMP. 135 

slie informs j\Ir. ]\Iould with a maternal tremolo in her 
voice, " which if we had had one, Gamp would certainly 
have drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our 
pregious boy he did, and aterwards send the child a 
errand, to sell his wooden leg for any liquor it would 
fedge as matches in the rough ; which was truly done be- 
yond his years, for ev'ry individgle penny that child lost 
at tossing for kidney-pies, and come home aterwards 
quite sweet and bold, to break the news, and offering to 
drown himself if sech would be a satisfagion to his 
parents." Mrs. Gamp may not speak the Queen's Eng- 
lish in obedience to royal commands ; but the sublimity 
of her ignorance raises her so far above the rules regu- 
lating ordinary humanity as to render her conversation 
infinitely superior to that of the schools. A little learn- 
ing is not only dangerous but stupid ; whereas a great 
deal of human nature " in the rough," carries a force tliat 
bigwigs confess while they condemn. Wliat flight of 
rlietoric, for example, can equal Mrs. Gamp's reply to 
Mrs. Harris's " awful " question, " Sairey, tell me wot is 
my individgle number ? " referring to family extension. 
" No, Mrs. Harris, e^c-cuge me, if you please. My own 
family has fallen out of three-pair backs, and has had 
damp doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was turned 
ujj smil'in' in a bedstead unbeknown." (Here Mrs. Gamp 
suits the action to the word and smiles the smile of 
confiding youth and innocence. Its appeal is irresisti- 
ble, and we rather wish Vesuvius were conveniently 



136 PEN PHOTOGRAPHS OF DICKEXS'S READINGS. 

near, and would repeat, in a small way, its dramatic per- 
formance entitled " Pompeii," that we might possess a 
cast in lava of an extraordinary countenance.) " There- 
fore, ma'am, seek not to protigipate, but take 'em as they 
come and as they go. Mine is all gone, my dear young 
chick. And as to husbands, tJiere 's a wooden leg gone 
likewise home to its account, which in its constangy of walk- 
ing into public- ouses, and never coming out again till 
f edged hy forge, was quite as loeak as flesh, if not weaker." 
(Could a constant stream of molten lava play over Mrs. 
Gamp's features, and by this peculiar form of douche- 
bath obtain her lasting impression, it would be better 
still.) As that wooden leg goes home to its account, the 
bereaved widow follows its translation with moist up- 
turned eyes, while her reference to its superiority in 
weakness over flesh, is made in tones that carry enthusi- 
astic con\dction to *the greatest sceptics. After this 
insight into Mrs. Gamp's domestic relations, it does not 
seem strange that the thrifty relict should have " dis- 
posed of her husband's remains" — particularly the 
wooden leg — " for the benefit of science." 

Lastly, Mrs. Gamp is a philosopher, and shines as 
brightly in this capacity as in all others. She is a pro- 
verbial philosopher and brings wisdom to a focus in fewer 
words than many another of greater repute. There is a 
sibylline tendency in her look as she ecstatically gazes 
toward heaven and speaks of " this Pilgian's Progiss of a 
mortal wale," giving as her text for the sermon of life, 



MRS. GAMP. 137 

" You oiiglit to know that you was born in a wale, and 
that you live in a wale, and that you must take the con- 
sequences of sich a sitivation." Thus is the whole 
ground of existence covered. Misery can find no greater 
consolation unless it hug itself with the equally incon- 
trovertible Gampian proverb that " Eich folks may ride 
on camels, but it ain't so easy for them to see out of 
a needle's eye. That 's my comfort, and I hope I knows 
it." Soothed by these reflections, we take the conse- 
quences of our situation, and depart in peace as Mrs. 
Gamp withdraws from view. 



FAREWELL. 



" Should we be taking leave 
As long a term as yet we have to live, 
The loathness to depart would grow." 

" i^THELLO'S occupation's gone." The last reading 
^-^ has been heard ; the last photograph has been taken, 
and the camera-obscura, which has done its work so im- 
jjerfectly, is put aside. There is nothing left, alas ! but 
leave-taking, and for the last time we sit in Boston's 
Tremont Temple to listen to the voice that has swayed 
us to smiles and tears so many, many nights. Crowded 
to its utmost capacity, the brilliant hall might be called, 
in honor of Mrs. Fezziwig, " one vast substantial smile," 
were it not for the clouds flitting over sunny faces at 
thought of the fleeting pleasure. There is a cordial 
warmth in the atmosphere, for the audience has been mag- 
netized into perfect sympathy and feels how good it is to 
be bound together by a common interest. The Eeading- 
Stand wears an unaccustomed look, concealed as it is 
by a Florentine mosaic of nature's making. Eoses, full 
blown, blossoming, and of every hue, — roses without 
thorns, — breathe their silent language of love ; the he- 



I 



FAEEWELL. 139 

liotrope proclaims devoted attachment ; " violets dim " 
grow bold to catch a glimpse of the hero of the night ; 
imperial lilies bow their gracefid heads in homage ; the 
palm -leaf, flower-laden, tells the story of a himdred vic- 
tories ; 

" And there are pansies, that 's for thoughts," 

which rear their little smiling heads that they may whis- 
per in genial Boz's ear the words, " Forget me not." 

We shall not forget the hearty welcome that greets 
the entrance of Charles Dickens, nor will he forget this 
red-letter night, the 8th of AprO, 1868. The reception, 
so full of tenderness and regard, steals away the art- 
ist's self-possession, and lays bare the emotion of the 
man. Looking at his new friends, that do not applaud 
and yet dare encroach upon his stand, Charles Dickens 
says : " Before allowing Doctor Marigold to tell his story 
in his own peculiar way, I kiss the kind, fair hands un- 
known, which have so beautifully decorated my table this 
evening." This graceful, characteristic acknowledgment 
brings speaker and audience still nearer, and the " liands 
unknown " wish the path, as well as the table, were 
strewn with flowers. Then follows the story of " Doctor 
Marigold," never better told, never heard with more re- 
sponsive appreciation. The story is well chosen, for the 
marigold is "the flower of the calends" that blossoms 
the whole year and symbolizes grief, yet turns towards 
tlie sun as it speeds from east to west. However, the 
good Doctor's grief merges itself in joy, and so does ours 



140 FAREWELL. 

AvLile Mrs. Gamp discourses ; but Mrs. Gamp is a fleeting 
shadow, and we stand at last in the presence of that grim 
skeleton, Farewell. It is in vain for Charles Dickens to 
attempt to retire. Persistent hands demand " one word 
more." Eeturning to his desk, pale, with a tear in his eye, 
that finds its way to his voice, Charles Dickens speaks. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, — My gracious and gener- 
ous welcome in America, which can never be obliterated 
from my remembrance, began here. My departure be- 
gins here too ; for I assure you that I have never until 
this moment really felt that I am going away. In this 
brief life of ours it is sad to do almost anything for the 
last time, and I cannot conceal from you, although my 
face will so soon be turned towards my native land and 
to aU that makes it dear, that it is a sad consideration 
with me that in a very few moments from this time 
this brilliant hall and all that it contains will fade from 
my view forevermore. But it is my consolation that 
the spirit of the bright faces, the quick perception, the 
ready response, the generous and the cheering sounds 
that have made this place delightful to me, will remain ; 
and you may rely upon it that that spirit will abide with 
me as long as I have sense and sentiment left. 

" I do not say this with any limited reference to private 
friendships that have for years upon years made Boston a 
memorable and beloved spot to me, for such private refer- 
ences have no business in this public place. I say it 
purely in remembrance of, and in homage to, the great 
public heart before me. 



f 



FAREWELL. 141 

" Ladies and Gentlemen, I beg most earnestly, most 
gi'atefuUy, and most affectionately to bid you each and 
all farewell." 

" Forevermore." "We seem to hear a funeral knell. 
The sad, earnest words, so exquisitely spoken that they 
are set aside as never to be equalled, go straight to every 
heart, and when " farewell " is said, there 's not an eye 
in the vast assemblage that does not glisten, there 's not 
a face that does not reflect the hour's solemnity. Yet 
cheer after cheer resounds through the hall, hats go up, 
and fluttering handkerchiefs wave in the air, until Charles 
Dickens, fearing " the httle more " that is too much for 
fortitude, passes out of Boston's sight. The good, true 
Commonwealth has taken Charles Dickens to its good, 
true heart, and there will his memory Qhii\.Q forevermore. 

We follow Boz to New York, and on the 20th of April 
witness the " last scene of all." Suffering physically, sit- 
ting, not standing, Charles Dickens goes through the final 
ordeal, readincj " The Christmas Carol," and " The Pick- 
wick Trial " weU, although but half himself. New York 
pays floral tribute as welj as Boston ; New York applauds, 
and then comes the second leave-taking : — 

" Ladies and Gentlemen, — The shadow of one word 
has impended over me all this evening, and the time has 
come at last when the shadow must fall. It is but a very 
short one, but the weight of such things is not measured 
by their length; and two much shorter words express 



142 FAREWELL. 

the whole realm of our human existence. Wlien I was 
reading ' David Copperfield ' here last Thursday night 
I felt that there was more than usual significance for me 
in Mr. Peggotty's declaration : ' My future life lies over 
the sea.' And when I closed this book just now I felt 
keenly that I was shortly to establish such an alibi as 
would have satisfied even the elder Mr. Weller himself. 
The relations that have been set up between us in this 
place, — relations sustained on my side at least by the 
most earnest devotion of myself to my task ; sustained by 
yourselves, on yoitr side, by the readiest sympathy and 
kindliest acknowledgment, — must now be broken forever. 
But I entreat you to believe that in passing from my sight 
you will not pass from my memory. I shall often, often 
recall you as I sec you now, equally by my winter fire 
and in the sreen, En'dish summer weather. T shall never 
recall you as a mere public audience, but rather as a host 
of personal friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, 
tenderness, and consideration. Ladies and gentlemen, 
I beg to bid you farewell. And I pray God bless you, 
and God bless the land. in which I have met you." 

Rise, one and all ; follow him with your cheers, and let 
silvery-tongued George AVilliam Curtis speak for America 
as he exclaims, " Old ocean, bear him safely over ! Eng- 
lish hedges, welcome him with flowers of the May ! Eng- 
lish hearts, he is ours as he is yours ! We stand upon the 
shore ; we say farewell ; and as he sails away we pray, 
with love and gratitude, may God bless him ! " 



THE VERDICT 



rriHE curtain has fallen, and nothing remains but to 
-■- hear the final verdict passed upon Charles Dickens. 
The impanelled jury pronounce him guilty of all the 
charges brought against him, and now, as in duty bound, 
sum them up. 

FIRST CHARGE. 

That as an author Charles Dickens is without a peer. 
William Makepeace Thackeray, foreman of the jury, 
claims that he is the master of all the English humor- 
ists now alive. 

SECOND CHARGE. 

Tliat Dickens is one of the best of actors, and, as an 
interpreter of himself, stands unrivalled. Our indebted- 
ness to him is vastly increased by his visit to this 
country, for he has demonstrated by personal illustration 
the meaning of the long-neglected art of reading. He 
has shown us that it means a perfectly easy, unaffected 
manner, a thoroughly colloquial tone, and entire ab- 
sence of the stilted elocution that has heretofore passed 



144 THE VERDICT. 

current for good reading, the virus of which has well- 
nigh ruined our school of public speaking. Dickens has 
done more : he has proved that the very best reading is 
such as approaches the very best acting, and in adopting 
the actor's profession he has paid the highest tribute 
to a noble art, — one to which he has always been an 
earnest and devoted friend. Charles Dickens is now 
twice Charles Dickens. He is author and actor, as only 
Shakespeare has been before liiin ; and the balance be- 
tween the two may be considered almost even, for while 
Shakespeare is, of course, the greater author, it is safe to 
regard Charles Dickens as the finer actor ! Herein the 
latter resembles the magician who pours out numberless 
wines and liquors from one small black bottle. He 
" costumes his mind," as Carlyle once declared, and with- 
out change of scene presents a repertoire of eighty-six 
characters ! This is but a small percentage of his Fancy's 
children, — the dramatis persona of his fourteen principal 
works numbering no less than seven hundred and ninety- 
two, — yet it is enough. Nevertheless, were we the jury 
omnipotent, we would have Dickens luxuriously incarce- 
rated until he had made a dramatic study of all his 
books, and was prepared to read them by instalments. 
Perhaps in another world, where time is of no conse- 
quence, Dickens may give his mind to a like occupa- 
tion. With such audiences as he can there draw around 
him, it will indeed be " a feast of reason and a flow of 
soul." 



THE VEEDICT. 145 

THIRD CHARGE. 

That, gladly borrowing the language of Horace Greeley, 
we regard him as " the most thoroughly successful literary 
man of our time " whose success " is an encouragement 
to every one of us." All reporters, all editors, cannot 
be Charles Dickens, but did all reporters report, did all 
editors edit, as their great example reported and edited, 
then might their light shine as it is not wont to shine. 
Let those who would know the secret of this success turn 
to "David Copperfield," wherein there is undoubtedly 
more of the author's personality than can be found else- 
where. 

" I have been very fortunate in worldly matters. 
Many men have worked much harder and not suc- 
ceeded half so well ; but I never could have done what 
I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and 
diligence ; without the determination to concentrate my- 
self on one object at a time, no matter how quickly its 
successor should come upon its heels, which I then 
formed. Heaven knows I write this in no spirit of self- 
laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do 
mine, in going on here, from page to page, had need to 
have been a good man indeed, if he would be spared 
the sharp consciousness of many talents neglected, many 
opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted feel- 
ings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating 
him. I do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I 

7 J 



146 THE VERDICT. 

have not abused. My meaning simply is, that whatever 
I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart 
to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I 
have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims 
and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. 
I have never believed it possible that any natural or 
improved ability can claim immunity from the compan- 
ionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and 
hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such 
fulfilment on this earth. Some happy talent and some 
fortunate opportunity may form the two sides of the 
ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of 
that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear ; 
and there is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and 
sincere earnestness. Never to put one hand to anything 
on which I co.uld throw my whole self, and never to 
affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was, I find 
now to have been my golden rules." 

FOURTH CHARGE. 

That Cliarles Dickens has ever been faithful to the 
profession of letters ; that his career, as George William 
Curtis says so admirably, " illustrates what Charles Lamb 
called the sanity of genius. He has never debased it to 
unworthy ends. He has shown us that he is not a deni- 
zen of Bohemia only, but a citizen of the world. He has 
always honored his profession by asserting its dignity in 



THE VERDICT. 147 

his name." Asserted by the man, it has been maintained 
by the author. The preface of the first book piibHshed 
by Boz — " The Pickwick Papers/' — is a grateful dedica- 
tion to Thomas Noon Talfourd, in acknowledgment of his 
efibrts in behalf of an author's copyright. Never has 
this subject, so vital to wTiters, been out of his thoughts. 
"With regard to such questions as are not political," 
remarks Mr. Gregsbury, the member of Parliament to 
whom Nicholas Nicldeby applies for the situation of 
secretary, "and which one can't be expected to care a 
damn about, beyond the natural care of not allowing 
inferior people to be as well off as ourselves, else where 
are our privileges ? I should wish my secretary to get 
together a few little flourishing speeches of a patriotic 
sort. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought 
forward for giving poor grubbing devils of authors a right 
to their own property, I should Uke to say, that I, for ^ 
one, would never consent to opposing an insurmountable 
bar to the diffusion of literature among the people, — you 
understand ? that the creations of the pocket, being man's, 
might belong to one man, or one family; but that the 
creations of the brain, being God's, ought, as a matter of 
course, to belong to the people at large; and if I was 
pleasantly disposed, I should like to make a joke about 
posterity, and say that those who wrote for posterity 
should be content to be rewarded by the approbation of 
posterity. It might take with the House, and could 
never do me any harm, because posterity can't be ex- 



148 - THE VERDICT. 

pected to know anj-thing about me or my jokes either, — 
don't you see ? . . . . You must always bear in mind, in 
such cases as this, where our interests are not affected, to 
put it very strong about the people, because it comes out 
very well at election-time ; and you could be as funny as 
you liked about the authors, because I believe the greater 
part of them live in lodgings and are not voters." 

Some years after the publication of " Nicholas Nickle- 
by," at that memorable dinner given to Charles Dickens 
by the young men of Boston, in 1842, the subject of 
international copyright found expression in words that, 
be it said to our shame, still remain unlieeded. " Before 
I sit down," said the honored guest, " there is one topic 
on which I am desirous to lay particular stress. It has, 
or should have, a strong interest for us all, since to its 
literature every country must look for one great means of 
refining and improving its people, and one great source of 
national pride and honor. You have in America great 
writers — great wTiters — who will live in all time, and 
are as familiar t(j our lips as household words. Deriving 
(which they all do in a greater or less degree, in their 
several walks) their inspiration from the stupendous 
country that gave them birth, they diffuse a better knowl- 
edge of it, and a higher love for it, over the civilized 
world. I take leave to say, in the presence of some of 
those gentlemen, tliat I hope the time is not far distant 
when thev, in America, will receive of ri'dit some sub- 
stantial profit and return in England from their labors ; 



THE VERDICT. 149 

and when we, in England, shall receive some substantial 
profit and return in America from ours. Pray, do not 
misunderstand me. Securing to myself from day to day 
the means of an honorable subsistence, I would rather 
have the afiectionate regard of my fellow-men than I 
would have heaps and mines of gold. But the two things 
do not seem to me incompatible. They cannot be, for 
nothing good is incompatible with justice. There must 
be an international arrangement in this respect ; England 
has done her part ; and I am confident that the time is 
not far distant when America will do hers. It becomes 
the character of a great country, firstly, because it is 
justice ; secondly, because without it you never can have, 
and keep, a literature of your own." With this noble 
record Charles Dickens may rightly claim " that the cause 
of art generally has been safe in his keeping, and that 
it has never been falsely dealt with by him ; that he has 
always been true to his calling; that never unduly to 
assert it on the one hand, and never, on any pretence or 
consideration, to permit it to be patronized in his person, 
has been the steady endeavor of his life, and that he will 
leave its social position in England better than he found 
it." Thank God that " morals have somethinsr to do with 
art," and that the genius of Dickens has realized this 
solemn fact. 



150 THE VERDICT. 

FIFTH AND LAST CHARGE. 

That by liis second visit to America Charles Dickens 
has fulfilled the prophecy that he would "lay down a 
third cable of intercommunication and alliance between 
the Old "World and the New." Twelve years ago he 
wrote of the American nation : " I know full well, what- 
ever little motes my beamy eyes may have descried in 
theirs, that they are a kind, large-hearted, generous, and 
great people." In that faith he came to see us, in that 
faitli he is more fully confirmed than ever ; in that faith 
he, on the 18th of April, 18G8, pledged himself in the 
presence of tlie New York Press, " to be in England 
as faithful to America as to England herself." " Points 
of difference there have been," he said, " points of differ- 
ence there are, points of difference there probably always 
will be, between the two great peoples. But broadcast in 
England is sown the sentiment that tliose two peoples 
are essentially one, and that it rests with them jointly to 
uphold tlie great Anglo-Saxon race, to wliich our presi- 
dent has referred, and all its great achievements before 
the world. If I know anything of my countrymen, 
and they give me credit for knowing something, — if 
I know anything of my countrymen, gentlemen, the Eng- 
lish heart is stirred by the fluttering of those stars and 
stripes as it is stirred by no other flag that flies except 
its own. If I know my countrymen, in any and every 
relation toward America, they begin, not as Sir Anthony 



THE VERDICT. 151 

Absolute recommended lovers to begin, with "a little 
aversion," but with a great liking and a profound re- 
spect ; and whatever the little sensitiveness of tlie mo- 
ment, or the little official passion, or the little official 
policy, now, or tlien, or here, or there, may be, take 
my word for it, that the first, enduring, great popular 
consideration in England is a generous construction of 
justice. Finally, gentlemen, and I say this subject to 
your correction, I do believe that from the great majority 
of honest minds on both sides there cannot be absent the 
conviction that it would be better for this globe to be 
riven by an earthquake, fired by a comet, overrun by an 
iceberg, and abandoned to the arctic fox and bear, than 
that it should present the spectacle of these two great 
nations, each of which has, in its o\vn way and hour, 
striven so hard and so successfully for freedom, ever again 
being arrayed the one against the other." 

Amen, amen, amen ! 

With Landor of old, we of to-day are ready to exclaim, — 

"Here comes tlie minister I 
Yes, thou art he, although not sent 
By cabinet or parliament : 
Yes, thou art he." 

Charles Dickens is a minister of peace and light, and 
the toast once given by him in Boston is the fitting con- 
clusion to a manly, generous speech : " America and 
England ; may they never have any division but the 
Atlantic between them ! " 



152 THE VERDICT. 

In Charles Dickens, author and actor, man and minis- 
ter, the New AVorld bids the Old World welcome, and 
thus "putting a girdle round the earth," we say, as the 
new " minister " has often said, " God bless us, every 
one!" 



THE END. 



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